


Fandom Advent 2016

by smoth



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Alcohol, Bartender AU, Beach Day, Blood, Blow Jobs, Christmas AU, Comfort Food, Cooking Class, Doctor AU, Drug use mention, Dungeons and Dragons, Eating Disorder, Food, Greyromantic Character, Grumpy Trott, Gymnast AU, Housemates, Model AU, Multi, Organised Crime AU, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Pining, Platonic workmates, Plausible character death, Porn With Plot, Runway AU, Sexual Content, Sherlock-esque au, Shopping in Scotland, Shower Sex, Snow, Threatening, Vampire AU, Violence, Wedding preperation, bank heist, christmas markets, fandom advent 2016, figure skating AU, guns tw, hospital au, hotel bedroom, injury tw, lawyer AU, mechanic ross, messy teen kisses, organised crime, post-war AU, sex mention, x files au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 30,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8715370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoth/pseuds/smoth
Summary: A collection of works for the #fandomadvent2016, created by the great Threeplusfire and Leonandon. Guaranteed to be exclusively the Hat fandom. A whole bunch of aus.





	1. Not going home for Christmas

The sun was bright on Christmas morning. Grit and salt was spread on the long motorways, making the slushed-up ice form a murky reddish colour. Cars and trucks, filled with travellers; workers, families going home, the sets of 1 who headed to their old homes. The air was crisp and there were few, pure white clouds in the sky. 

The off-roader rolled into the small service station slowly, the chunky tires flicking pebbles and tiny flecks of aggregate flew out from underneath the force of the vehicle. A large hand tapped against the outside of the driver's door, rhythmically along to a tune that was being sang by both of the car's occupants. 

Smith's voice cracked on the last note of the chorus to the overplayed Christmas song and he and his brother burst into a deep voiced fit of laughter, heads tipped back with the same smile, the same eyes scrunching closed. 

"I'm gonna go get food and shit, are you coming?" His sibling chimed, as Smith coughed deep in his throat animatedly. In between coughs, though, he spoke.

"Just get me something in a bun that's greasy, I need crappy road food." He grinned cheaply, doubting he'd get anything close to the Christmas dinner Ross would be making right then, even if he tried. 

His brother shook his head, his smile a spitting image of his brother's. "Sure. Just give us a minute." He pushed out of the land rover and skipped his way to the service station, hands shoved in his pockets and hot breath making clouds behind him. Smith kicked his feet up onto the dash and took his phone out of his pocket. 

His lock screen was a photo of he, Ross and Trott. All in bed on a lazy Sunday, where the window was letting in too much light for Trott's liking and Ross told him not to take any photos without gel in his hair. His thumb rested on the screen, just over their faces. 

_"Smith! Oh my god!" Ross squeaked, and turned over to bury his face into his and Trott's pillow, letting out a long sigh. ___

_"I won't post it anywhere mate. Just need a reminder of you both, y'know I won't be here for Christmas." He pouted, locking his phone and dropping it to land on someone's jeans on the floor. It made a little thumping sound. ___

_"As long as you're here right now." Trott murmured into Ross' back, and tapped his fingers against Smith's shoulder for him to turn around. He did so and took Trott's long hand in his own. Smith's thumb rubbed over Trott's protruding knuckles softly. ___

Smith let out a cloudy sigh, unlocking the phone and opening up his recent call list, his thumb hovering over Trott's number. 

A click. "Hello?" Trott was tired. Smith didn't know what time it really was, but he was probably their alarm clock this morning.

"Merry Christmas, mate." Smith tried to sound happy. He really shouldn't have to force it; Today is a happy day. Trott and Ross would have such a good day.

"Not really merry without you here, but to you too." Trott shifted in his sheets. Smith's heart dropped. "How's the road?" 

"As good as roads can get, to be fair. I just want to get home already, but we can't turn around and make it back for today. To you guys." He let out a shaky breath. 

"Oh, Smith," The care in Trott's voice nearly made him come undone. Happy day. Happy day. 

"You know we love you, you know that. We're keeping your dinner in the over tonight for when you're back and Ross always makes enough for leftovers, so there's gonna be plenty for you. We won't touch your presents either. Promise." 

Smith felt himself smile. "Thanks, Trott." 

"The least we can do for you, Smith. Now let me lay in bed until Ross realises I'm awake, I really don't want to get up to help him cut carrots yet." Trott had shifted in the sheets again, no doubt taking advantage of Smith's usual spot. It made Smith giddy. 

"Sure, tell him to call me when he has a break, yeah?" 

"Course. Have a good drive and send photos, okay?" Trott's voice was warm and comfortable, and Smith wrapped one arm around his stomach in a little hug. 

"Will do. Love you." Smith blinked very slowly. 

"Love you too." Trott was smiling. 

Smith locked his phone and hugged himself tighter.


	2. In the snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross really wants to go into the snow. 
> 
> (Note: This doesn't actually have a real snow-interaction scene.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of gifted to Three - this is for the VC au, a favourite of mine. And the many times his fics have left me hungry.

Ross’ childlike grin was wide enough to hurt his glowing face as he looked out of the window, his hand happily tapping on the glass as if gaining the outside world’s attention. He practically bounced up and down, the balls of his feet staying on the floor in his horrendous Christmas socks, but his heels raised on and off of the floor, going up and down like he was about to take flight. He leaned heavily on the windowsill, arms straight. 

 

Trott had reminded him countlessly that today would be a day purely for paperwork - staying indoors with heads down to get things done. 

 

The snow fell slowly outside, and the flaked stuff had managed to make a thin cover over everything from the restricted view of the bedroom window. His car had a layer of snow covering the bonnet and roof, and the slabs of concrete pathway to the front door were all dusted white, bar some footprints left by the postman earlier in the morning. Ross hummed excitedly, top front teeth catching on his bottom lip and pushing off from the window to run out of the room. 

 

“Trott!” He called out, sliding along the lino hallway in his socks. “It’s snowing! Smith!” 

 

Ross’ heavy footfalls thudded down the staircase, his hand trailing down the handrail and both arms flailing as he reached the end of the staircase. He landed heavily and slid slightly, and almost tripped onto the lavish rug that Sips had sent them. He promised it wasn’t real animal hide, but Smith always joked otherwise. Ross walked along the faux fur slowly, enjoying the padding beneath his feet, on the way through their living room. 

 

As expected, the papers were already spread out in five or six piles on the coffee table, Smith’s laptop and Trott’s empty glass that was no doubt full of the spinach and apple smoothie he insisted woke him up in the winter months. Ross picked up the glass and continued his venture. He walked directly into the heavy scent of breakfast-making. 

 

At the stove, Trott was holding a spatula in one hand and the handle of a frying pan in the other, scraping at the edges of something Ross couldn’t see. With Smith’s old University jersey on, Trott looked smaller than ever. The hem of the navy blue sweatshirt grazed him mid-thigh, and Ross could barely see a pair of boxers underneath it. The sleeves were all bunched up at Trott’s elbows, and the tendons in his arms flexed as he cooked. 

 

Smith was sat by the counter next to the fridge, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, his own clothes fashioned similarly to Trott’s. He regarded Ross with a gentle tip of his head and a hand gesturing to come closer, to watch whatever Trott was making. 

 

Ross grinned softly and padded over to suck up to Smith’s side, and joint them both by the hips. “What’s he making?” He tried to peer at the frying pan.

 

“Crepes. There’s cinnamon roll muffins still baking, too, and I made coffee.” Smith said quietly, turning to face Ross with a small smile. They seemed so relaxed and content. 

 

“Don’t get used to this, yeah? I’m in a nice mood.” Trott turned around to show his mussed hair and coffee-stained lips, pointedly waving the spatula at them both. Ross raised his eyebrows in a mock-offended manner. Smith pinched a strawberry from one of the few bowls on the cutting board. The other two were filled with kiwi slices and blueberries, and the remainders of crepe ingredients. 

 

“It’s snowing today,” Ross said quieter than he intended, and Trott smiled. Smith held the bitten strawberry to the brunet’s lips and he took a bite, teeth grazing Smith’s fingertips. The taller man wiped the juice on his leg. 

 

“You know fine well that I’m cooking all of this so you’ll stay inside to help with paperwork.” Trott quirked his eyebrow, flipping a freckled crepe. It folded in the pan, and he smoothed it out again. 

 

Ross pouted, and stole a blueberry. Smith took his hand and swung it gently between their hips. 

 

“If you help with the spreadsheets we can go down to the park, though.” Trott murmured, and Ross bounced. 

 

“Yes! Trott- Thank you!” He quickly let go of Smith’s hand and hugged Trott from behind, slipping his arms underneath Trott’s and kissing his cheek, then his hair, and anywhere he could reach from his position, murmuring ‘Thank you’s into the skin and chestnut hair. 

 

Smith sipped at his coffee happily, only watching as Trott flailed at Ross to get off so he didn’t burn any crepes. 

 

-  
Trott looked ridiculous with his scarf piled up to his nose, the bright mustard colour bringing out his eyes, and his thick sweaters making his chest look much bulkier than it actually was. He was lacing up his leathered brown boots tightly, one foot up against the coffee table. Smith pulled on his old driving gloves and a woolen hat, a tiny tuft of auburn hair poking out from under the green wool. Ross was ready to leave long before the other two. Trott grabbed their keys and shoved them in his pocket, before pulling on his leather gloves and standing before the front door proudly. 

 

“Trott?” Smith purred, slinking up to him with his hands in his pockets. Trott raised an eyebrow. “You know we’re going to a public park, not an expedition to the Alps, right?” 

 

Trott scoffed. “Well, I’ll be laughing when you get the flu, Smith.” He stuck his tongue out behind the layers of scarf. Smith chuckled. 

 

Ross bounced his way over to them. “Let’s go, then! Out into the snow!”


	3. Filming something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the beauty of Kez's X-Files au. When Detective Trott and Smith are on one of their first assignments.

"Easy, sunshine. Keep it steady." Trott's voice was low and reassuring over Smith's shoulder. As he set up the camera on a pile of unconvincingly stable sticks and branches. As it was, the camera was pointed downwards to the forest floor, and high up in the midsection of tree branches. 

In all his years of training for working with the FBI, Trott had never spent two hours making a video camera stay still. Let alone shivering in a freezing winter forest.

"Why are we even doing this? Can't we hide in a bush or something with a net?" Smith angrily shuddered at the cold. 

"Detective Smith!" Trott snapped, stomping his foot against the grassy floor of the woodland. 

"Right, sorry." Smith rolled his eyes, and shoved the camera down on another branch. 

"If we're working together on this, you'll have to do as we've been told to do, no ifs or buts about it." Trott watched as Smith turned the camera on, and took his phone out from his pocket. 

"The camera is recording, sir, do you see us?" The shorter of the two sharply asked whoever it was on the other end. 

"Yup, see you two clear as day. Good job. S'pose it was easy for you?" Smith scoffed at that, brushing leaves and natural debris from his suit. Sips was obviously eating over the phone, and Trott grimaced, turning the phone on loudspeaker and holding it an arm's length from himself, pulling a disgusted face. 

"Minor difficulties." Smith forced the cheery tone in his voice, and Trott glared at him. 

"I knew you'd work well together, knew it, God-damn." Sips chews on something again, muttering his praise behind a mouthful of food. Trott barely kept him on the line. Smith watched his expression shift, wondered what he was thinking. 

"Well, you're free until I say so, boys. Thanks for the setup." Sips waved at the screen that he sae them both through, then ceremoniously hang up the call. Trott groaned. 

"We did it, though." Smith shrugged and looked expectant as Trott put his phone back into the inside breast pocket of his suit blazer. 

"We did. Thanks, sunshine." He made a thin smile, and Smith felt much warmer when he smiled back.


	4. Law enforcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by DareDevil, a Marvel series. Trott is a blind lawyer, Sips is his assistant, and Ross is his electrician boyfriend who's never home. 
> 
> This is by far one of the best things I've written in a while.

“Hey Trott, you got another case.” Sips spat out his chewing gum from the inside of his cheek into the paper basket, and set down the braille copies of the case studies. Hopefully the gum landed on some scrap paper and not the bottom of the basket; it was such a pain to get out. Sips had horrible habits, but he was a good assistant for Trott. "Can I turn on the lights?" 

Trott, who sat neatly at his desk, pushed his rose tinted glasses further up the bridge of his nose with the knuckle of his index finger, and felt as Sips gently took his wrist and guided it to the papers on the desk. Trott muttered a quiet thanks, and felt over the braille on the page. 

"Course you can, I don't mind." 

Sips clicked on the lights of the small office space, and then sat down on the edge of the old desk. It came with the office, of course, and must have been too big to remove from the building. They were 30 floors up; Trott had counted. He preferred the walk, and Sips had to guide him up there. They had worked in the building for years now, and Trott knew the place by heart, but it was still nice to talk to someone while walking up the stairs. 

Sips watched Trott frown as he felt over the little dots on the paper, and wondered what he was thinking. He really had to learn braille some day, to help with the filing system Trott had. The amount of times Sips had asked what the labels on the drawers had said was surely too many. Trott smiled and gathered the papers together. 

"This shouldn't take me ages, so that's good." He spoke quickly and it was very quiet in the room. 

Sips nodded quickly. "I just nodded, maybe you can have a break for the Christmas holidays, huh?" He asked, and Trott smiled widely. 

"Yeah, should be nice. I love Christmas, and it'll be the first time Ross has been home for it." 

"Really?" 

"You'd be surprised by the amount of people that need an electrician over the holidays, and you know him. Too selfless for his own good." Trott wiped at his face, gently, and Sips made a small noise of agreement in the back of his throat.

"Where are you going for Christmas? I'd offer for you to come to mine and Ross', but he takes Christmas very personally, and he doesn't know you too well. Don't take it the wrong way."

Sips shook his head. "I get it, don't sweat it. I'll probably go to the country club again. It's almost like family there." He mused quietly, and Trott reached out to place a hand on where Sips usually rested his. His fingers rubbed over the creases on Sips' fingers gently. 

"Anyway," Sips chirped again, and Trott jumped slightly. "The case." 

"Yes?" Trott laughed at the sudden subject change. He knew that family was a soft topic for Sips, though, so didn't dwell on it. The past few years had been easy, though, for their careers.

Trott had graduated at the top of his class from Oxford and almost immediately was offered a job at Mesothelioma, one of the best legal firms in London. He had been working for them almost a year and he had already had eight different cases. Sips had been his assistant for him ever since he started, since he needed assistance. Trott's blindness wouldn't stop him achieving anything important, and he always tried at everything people said he couldn't do. Sips was inspired by that. 

"What's the case, Trott?" 

"Murder case, the guy's charged with two counts and theft." Trott pushed away from his desk, and the sound of the chair's feet against the floor was enough to make them both wince. Trott felt along the edge of his desk and frowned. "Did my cane fall?" 

“We're defending a murder case?” Sips wondered doubtfully, but he was having a very hard time containing himself. He was excited, nervous. A murder case. That was big. Trott treated all of his cases the same, however. It made him to be a great lawyer. Sips was just there to help with the visuals, but it was amazing to see him doing what he did best. "And yeah, I'll get it." 

Trott hummed as he listened to Sips' heels hitting the floor, and grabbing for Trott's cane. He places it in his left hand, and Trott smiled his thanks. Sips picked up the papers and put them in the briefcase, and then closed it up and held it too. 

"Arm," Trott cooed out, and Sips nudged the shorter man's side with his elbow. Trott hung on to Sips' forearm, and they left the office to take on the stairs. 

The next few nights, Ross was always working, so Trott and Sips stayed at the office late into the night reading over the file intently; Sips with his written copy and Trott with the full copy. There were so many holes in the information that Sips' head was spinning, but Trott was hopeful. The guy’s name wasn’t even in the paperwork. 

Credit card theft, several suspected counts of murder, and assault. Every inch of evidence was circumstantial, Trott had said. The two would stay and fight over pros and cons over takeaway food, and sandwiches that Ross made for Trott. The suspect sounded more like a vigilante than anything else. Helped people. Took a bullet for a woman.

"Trott, I think we need security. For the case." Sips said, after pondering over it for a good hour and a half, as Trott bit into another sandwich. He hummed in question. 

Sips placed down his soda can and grimaced. "The guy just sounds dangerous. You've been hurt after trials before." 

"The officers helped, though, Sips." Trott said after swallowing, rubbing at his weary face. 

"I suppose. I just worry for you." Sips picked his can up again. There was no point arguing with a lawyer. Especially when he could get fired. 

Trott's defense came together nicely, witnesses were called in and interviewed, arresting officers were called in as well, after Sips' pleads. 

The court date loomed, and Trott went home early the night before to get a good night’s rest.

"Ross?" Trott closed the door behind him. "I'm home!" 

The tiny one-bedroom apartment was empty and undecorated, but Ross promised to put the decorations up tomorrow. The tree. Trott smiled, and it pained him. 

His shower was blessedly lukewarm and and his towel was clean, all laid out by Ross, as always. 

There was a little post it note on Trott's pillow, made by Ross with the Perkin's brailler. The holidays start tomorrow, Trott. I'm sorry I can't be home right now. I love you and there's leftovers in the fridge.

Trott made his way around the small flat, drawstring flannel pyjama bottoms swishing around his thin ankles, air cool on his bare chest. He made up a glass of water. Brushed his teeth. The ends of his hair that brushed the nape of his neck weren't drying quickly, and water dropped slowly down his back. Trott sighed quietly as he locked the front door a few times, like Ross liked to. 

He felt along the walls to the bedroom, and he hated the coldness of the air. Even with the central heating turned on, there was a chill. He climbed into bed and grabbed at Ross' pillow, latching his legs around it and hugging it to his chest. 

\- 

An arm looped around Sips' and his suit brisk, Trott made his way into the court room. Briefcase black and clean. Hair smoothly combed and tucked behind his ears. His charcoal grey suit free of lines and his glasses cleaned and high up on his nose. He was early, as per usual. 

The opposition took their places, and Sips described them quietly, sitting down next to Trott nervously.

The jury filed in. Trott was sitting calmly in his seat, paperwork ready, going over his opening statement in his head like a melody. The prosecution was mumbling together. 

Finally, the judge walked into the room and everyone rose. 

The judge waved a hand, “Bring in the accused.” The bailiff nodded, nonchalant, and left. The court room had gone silent and Sips felt his curiosity boil like water. He didn’t know more about the suspect than anyone else in the room, not even what he looked like. 

The door opened again and the bailiff brought the suspect in. Sips' knees locked before he could stagger. The corners of his mouth went slack and he had to fight to keep from yelling. In bright orange prison clothes, ankles and wrists shackled together, the man moved slowly. 

Sips prayed quietly for himself, and for Trott. 

-

The creaking from the door as it swung open was comforting, yet made Trott wince, his overworked ears not thanking him for the sound as he shuffled into the apartment. Ignoring his migraine, he placed his cane against the door and vaguely wondered if he should get new shoes; his feet were aching with the feeling of his toes hitting the edges of them. 

"Trott, you're home!" Ross called out, his padded feet walking over to his partner happily. "I told you I'd be here." He waited until Trott kicked off his shoes, then hugged the shorter man warmly. Trott wearily smiled into his chest and hugged back. 

"We won, again." Trott laughed weakly, rubbing his hands up and down Ross' sides, underneath his t-shirt. He could feel the softness of his skin. 

"I knew you would. My amazing boyfriend and his big brain." Ross rested his cheek against Trott's scalp. Trott inhaled deeply, then Ross cut him off. "I know, the size of the brain doesn't make you any smarter, I know." Trott could hear the smile in his voice. They pulled apart, Ross' hands on Trott's waist. 

Trott lifted his hand up to trace the lines of Ross' mouth. "Can I kiss you, please?" Ross nodded quickly.

"I nodded, Trott," and he leaned down to await Trott's usual; his arms around Ross' neck and pressing his lips around Ross' before finally settling where he wanted them. Ross held him close and let it happen. 

They pulled apart, both smiling, with Trott's glasses fogged up. Ross wondered if he would notice it. He took his hand, then waited to squeeze it. Trott poked at Ross' stomach and laughing.

"What are you eating at work, Ross?" He nuzzles his hand against it. He felt the dull pulse of Ross' heartbeat.

"Sandwiches." He mused.

"You really need to lay off them, eat something good." Trott's voice was a small mumble, lazy and playfully agitated. 

"Excuse me, Mister Big Brain, but lunch meals from the shops are the delicacies of the labour worker." 

Trott laughed, leaning his head back in a wide grin. "Oh please!" 

Ross nudged his partner affectionately. "If what I eat bothers you so much, why don't you give me a better suggestion for lunches?" 

Trott hummed, then rested his hands on Ross' hips. "Alright, let me take you to dinner tomorrow and show you what real food is." 

"A Christmas date? From Chris Trott?" 

"Whatever you want to call it." Trott withdrew his hands and held out his arm. "Now come on, I can smell nature, so that means a tree. Show me what we're doing, you big softie." 

Ross took his hand and lead him further into the house, muttering about where he wants to put everything, Trott smiling along. The house felt much more full and warm with Ross around, and the case off his mind. Trott thought of Sips at the country club, toasting whiskeys to eachother, playing snooker. 

"Trott?" Ross poked gently at his face, to get his attention. "You okay?" 

Trott shook his head so his hair would fall about his eyes. "Just tired, Ross."

"I'd think so, you had a long-"

"Merry Christmas, Ross." Trott interrupted, reaching for the taller man's hands. Ross didn't question it, and smiled. 

"I'm smiling, by the way." He said. Trott nodded. 

"I know you are."


	5. Live Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very short and thrown together, not going to lie.

"50 a week?" Smith barely contained the water in his mouth. "Only 50?" 

The guy who posted the ad for a housemate, a floppy 20-something year old with long hands and dark eyes, nodded, his hair flopping around. "Is that convenient for you?" 

Smith tried not to hit himself, eyes wide and his smile as equal. "More than convenient! That's a miracle!" 

The guy only nodded again, hands in his pockets now. He held up a small key attached to a labeled plastic luggage tag, with a label scratched off. He tugged it gently, though. 

"There are things that you'd be living with." His voice was so deep, and Smith wondered if he was a radio host. It felt smooth and he could listen all day. Yet Smith, for the moment, grimaced. 

"Things- Like rats?" He frowned, and the other guy shook his head, his fringe bobbling. The coffee table they were sat either side of shook slightly with the force of it. 

"Nah, mate. But there's another guy in the house too, but he's very introverted, keeps to himself like. Think his name is Rob?" He pondered, and Smith shrugged in agreement. "Do you mind loud music?" 

"Depends what genre. If you blast pop music there's no way-" 

"Violin." He cut in, and licked his lips as Smith paused. 

"Violin?" 

"I play," He said simply. "Would you mind it?" 

"Not at all, mate." Smith mumbled through his teeth. The floppy man handed him the key, and smiled toothily. 

"Welcome, then. Name's Trott." 

"Smith."

\- 

The next morning, Smith woke after an hour of sleep, and almost tripped over his boxes just getting through the house.

"When you asked me if I mind violin, I had no idea you meant that you play at ungodly hours of the morning." Smith grumbles to Trott, who sits across from Rob(?) at the little breakfast bar. 

"You didn't ask when I play." Trott crunches at a slice if toast calmly. Smith grunts to himself. It was too early to argue. 

"At least get some soundproofing, or play any other time or any other quieter piece?"

"I have no idea what you have against Bach." Trott wrinkles his nose. Smith takes a raw piece of bread and walks away. 

"I'm getting some sleep."


	6. Fast Cars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trott is based on this piece by Bee, and Mechanic Ross is a headcanon I've seen fly around for a while.

The little garage was lit up by collected LED signs, pointing towards stores and out of date gas stations, route numbers, turn this way. Tools of all shapes and sizes were in boxes along the edges of the squared off room, and there were tyre covers hung up on the slate grey walls. Framed certificates, all addressed to Ross S. Hornby; Bachelor's in Mechanical engineering. Engineering degrees. There was a spot were one frame was empty. 

The brunet slid out on his back on a skateboard, scuffed at the edges from use, with oil on his forehead. He beamed up at his customer, with the crisp suit and sunglasses on. He was an impatient man, but Ross prided himself in treating all of his customers the same. Equality in business was a major key, especially in a lone business; one of the few valuable things he learnt from community college. 

"Well, I found your problem." He chirped, and the man crossed his arms. "But seriously, it's just a tiny hole. I'm surprised it's so minor, what with the stunts you two pull-" 

"Slow down, sunshine." Trott interrupted. He leant against the wall with a foot pressed against the brick, his shirt low rising on his chest and his hair tied back in a tiny ponytail. The blue was fading from his locks, and it gave a nice look to him. He had a dreadlock by the side of his face, with a little blue bead on the end. 

"Thanks again for this, Ross." He said slowly, looking around the place. "What's with the empty space here?" He pointed a green painted fingernail to the row of certificates. Ross gave it a glance then stood to poke through a box. 

"Working towards a PhD." He called out from under the car. 

Trott nodded silently. "Oh, here's trouble." He chuckled. "Hey, Smith."

The taller man poked his head into the garage, his hood up and all of his clothes black. 

"Ross was just saying that he's gonna get a PhD, Smith." Trott tapped the spot next to him, and Smith slunk into the room. His shoes were scuffed, and he dipped his head down to look at Ross. The mechanic barely kept himself from grinning. 

Smith, on a whole, was Ross' favourite when it came to just laughing at things. But so often Trott was the one with enough initiative to actually bring their car to get fixed. Ross had nothing against Trott; quite the opposite. The two, together, were perfectly opposite and it overwhelmed him wonderfully. 

"P H D? Pretty huge dick?" Smith bit his tongue in a smile, and Ross hit his head against the bottom of the car. 

"Smith!" He squeaked. Said man crouched down by the tyres of the shared car. He wiped his hand on the body. 

"How's my baby looking?" Smith then tugged at Ross' shirt, and he slid out and stared up at the taller man. 

"Trust me, your baby's fine." Ross grunted in response, wanting so to kiss Smith's stupid smile away. Or slap it away. He could never bring himself to choose.

"She was acting a little wonky the last few days, like she couldn't quite handle the sharper turns. See what you can do about that, will you Rossy?"

"Anything," Ross tried not to whine. Smith stood back up and crowded around Trott again. "Trott didn't say anything about the turning." 

Trott, behind Smith now, shrugged. "I'm mostly in the back." He smiled, and Ross tutted. 

"Looks like I'm making you a new system..." Ross muttered to himself, wheeling out from under the dark green car. He stood and wandered to a little desk, and grabbed for some paper. 

"We don't need it done right away, Ross, calm down." Trott walked to the desk, and looked sullenly at Ross. The way he automatically had the pencil in his hand and the other hand cupping his jaw made Trott ache; he had been rushed so many times he just went with it. 

"Yeah," Smith beamed, hands in his hoodie pockets. "You should come with us, we're going to get some food."

"What, skip this and spend the whole night eating junk food and not designing an entirely new steering and suspension system for Smith? Tempting, very tempting." Ross half-scowled.

"So that's a yes?"


	7. First Christmas together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve; a road trip and friendly relations.

There was 63 miles between Bristol and Exeter, and the journey would mean well over an hour in a car with Ross and Smith, but Trott was willing to stand the road trip. Exeter's Cathedral always held host to a Christmas market on the grounds, and they needed an excuse to leave town for at least a day. The stalls were straight out of a postcard advertising a German Christmas market, warm lights and food samples everywhere. 

"I still can't believe this, that we'll all be home this Christmas." Ross said for what seemed like the seventh time that day. It was his turn in the passenger seat with Smith, driving. Piled with hoodies and scarves and thick sweatshirts, his sleeves tugged over the knuckles of his fingers. He looked expectantly between Trott in the back, and Smith who smiled, mostly at the road. 

"Gonna be great to spend it together." Smith's smile was toothy and wide as he kept his eyes on the road. "Trott, it's your turn to drive the next time we pull over." 

Trott only nodded and made a noise of approval, too interested in playing his Pokemon game to think of a proper response. His thumbs moved around the console controls swiftly, the clicking faint over Smith's music. He had given the speech about too many Christmas songs on the radio a few times already, so they made sure to bring plenty of cds that were around the house. Most of them were techno. 

Ross watched the road with his chin resting in his palm. For miles, the M5 was surrounded by thin asparagus-like trees, in rows along the sides of the road. Most of their leaves had shed, though. Ross perked up at one of the signs. 

"Service station in 5 miles, Smith." He commented. Smith nodded, tapping his fingers against the wheel rhythmically to the song playing. 

"We're okay for fuel, mate." 

"Can we get some food, though?" Ross asked quietly. "We haven't had any breakfast or anything." 

Trott poked his head up from his ds and smiled. "Shitty junk breakfast, mate. The Christmas spirit!" 

"They have the festive range in all fast food places, Smith, please." Ross pleaded, prodding at the tallest man in the car with a finger. "Pleeease." 

"What do I get?" Smith smirked. 

"I heard Ross is good at blowies." Trott chirped, then received a glare from Ross, behind the front seat. Trott grinned. 

"Not as good as you, though." Ross gritted. "Bet you could fit right in there between his legs, you tiny little-" 

"Lads!" Smith burst in, turning in to the service station. "I meant food. What food can I get?" Smith laughed loudly, and the tension between the other two defused slightly. 

\---

"I don't see how this is a festive burger." Smith sneered, carrying their paper bags of their breakfast back to the car. "It's not got turkey or cranberry sauce or anything." 

"Out of all the things to be salty about." Trott laughed, reading over the receipts to double check the orders. The woman serving them had a hard time keeping up with all three of them at once. 

"I'm gonna file a complaint, I swear I am." 

"Guys!" Ross' fast paced footfalls thudded up to them, as he messily sprinted towards them. "I found them!" 

"Found what?" Smith and Trott frowned as Ross collapsed in on himself, cursing his non-athlecity. 

"I- found chocolates." He held up a bag, puffing out breaths. Trott walked over next to him and patted him on the back. 

"Come on, you old timer. Let's get you to the car, yeah?" 

"Should we carry him, Trott?" Smith jeered. Ross' eyes lit up with panic. 

"Jesus, no! I'm heavy!" Ross pouted, but Smith went straight for the legs, and Ross grabbed onto Smith's head, his mouth open in a silent scream. Smith flipped him up with a grunt, like some sort of fireman's lift. 

"Told you I was heavy." Ross groaned. Smith's shoulder dug far into his stomach. Smith exhaled shakily. 

"Anything for you, m'lord." He smiled, panting behind gritted teeth. They began to walk again, Trott picking up the bag of dropped chocolates that Ross had let go of mid-panic. 

\---

"Oh, God." Trott smiled at the marketplace, the yellowish lights all making his eyes seem golden. 

Beside him, Smith and Ross were wide-eyed, taking in the sights and beaming as they walked towards the tents and stalls, itching to inspect the wares, taste the free samples, find out where the distinctive smell of cinnamon was coming from.

Ross grabbed at Smith and Trott's shoulders, jumping around like an over excited puppy. "Look at it all!" 

Trott and Smith both smiled back, lights reflecting in their hair and eyes.

By the time they made their way down a few stalls, Ross already had a bag full of little handmade decorations and figures for the tree, and Smith bought some churros (cinnamon sugar, of course). Trott tried not to link arms with them both, like a couple of schoolchildren. He was content walking through the grassy grounds with a smile and his friends either side of him. 

“Do we need more decorations, Ross?" Smith loomed over the brunet's shoulder poking at him, as Ross browsed through little carved angels. 

"Of course we do." He swatted at Smith's hands. 

\---

Trott's hands were full, as he carried a tray of tea and coffee, and three of Smith's extra churros. "How's the additions to the tree looking?" 

"Pretty good," Smith slunk to one end of the plush sofa, legs ajar and his hands reaching out for tea. Trott lowered the tray until Smith could grab the cup, nodding his thanks. 

"Ross, your coffee is on the tray." Trott placed it on the floor next to Ross, who was sat on his knees, adjusting the little ornaments out of the market bags around the bottom of the tree. Trott took his cup and sat down next to Smith. 

They sat in a comfortable quiet, Trott and Smith sipping at their drinks and watching Ross fuss over positioning of robins and angels. 

"Our first Christmas day together, tomorrow." Smith said, smiling at the thought, as Ross scrunched up the now empty paper bag and rose to his feet. 

"It's going to be great." Trott put his cup down next to Smith's, and grinned up at him. Smith melted in Trott's eyes, and dropped his hands to his lap, bringing his knees up to his chest. Trott slunk next to him, enjoying the heat. Ross fell down into them with a laugh, his arms and legs spread. They burst into a loud, comfortable laugh with each other, Ross twisting around to sit beside Trott, smiling widely.

"Guys?" He asked, when the laughter died down. 

Trott and Smith smiled at him. 

"Thank you for being in my life." Ross said quietly. "I don't know what I would do without you both." 

The comment was sporadic, and it nearly made Ross come undone. 

"Don't worry about that, mate. Pretty sure we're not going anywhere anytime soon-"

"-No, you don't understand- You make every day worth waking up for, you help me out when I need it most, you-" he choked on a sob, and Smith's face fell, sympathy and guilt making his face softer. 

"Hey, Ross," and he shuffled over to place a hand on his side. Ross wrapped his arms around Smith's torso and sobbed loudly, spilling a wet patch onto Smith's shirt. Trott rubbed a circle into his back gently. 

"I'm sorry I just- you-" 

"Shush, Ross." 

"R-right." 

Smith rubbed his hand through the hair on the back of Ross head, the black going grey around the edges of his hairline. 

"I love you guys." He said, mostly into Smith's collar. Trott frowned.

"Ross, what'd you-" 

"I love you. And you." He pulled back from Smith's chest to look at Trott with puffy eyes and tear-wetted lashes. Trott bit his lip, and felt his lips twitch into a smile. He hugged onto Ross tightly, and soon enough, Smith was on the Ross' back, too. They were a mess of comfortable limbs on the sofa, and the living room glowed with happiness and tree lights. 

"We should have bought some mistletoe." 

"Smith!"


	8. On the beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A grumpy stall owner gets a very happy customer.

Trott is practically melting. The part where his brown-to-blue hair isn't shaved is tied up in a tiny bun, and the two little developing dreads hang either side of his face. He scoffs; the decorated paper fan in his hand is only blowing hot air onto his face.

When he gets hot and bothered, Trott should really be avoided. Which didn't help, seeing as he worked on an ice cream pop-up stall on the beach, in England- for crying out loud.

He at least thought it’d be a lot more air conditioned. He even had five umbrellas stowed under the table. He used one of them for shade.

Work at the beach, they said. It'll help you pay off that loan, they said. 

Trott's just in the middle of calculating whether he can fit in the portable freezer or not when a customer walks up to the stall. At least he'd get something out of this sweltering day. 

“If it ain't you!" Smith's hands hit the table, smiling widely. If Trott wasn't already internally screaming, it had definitely began now. Smith's wearing an obnoxious sun hat that's somewhere between a sombrero and a beekeeper's hat, and he's got his shirt unbuttoned to show off his blindingly pale stomach to the world. 

"You never told me you work-"

"How can I help you today, sunshine?" Trott grits, his usually cheery greeting beaten to a pulp, glaring under his frown and gripping onto the handle of the umbrella so tight that it could break the plastic. 

Smith cackled deep in his throat, holding the hat to his head as he threw it back with a smile. Trott didn't let himself feel anything when Smith tried his best smile straight at him. 

"Why are you so grumpy, Trott?" 

"Don't call me that." He grumbled. 

"It's a gorgeous day! Sips made cocktails! And brought them here!" 

"I have no idea who Sips is, and I don't care, either. You buy something or leave me be." He groaned loudly, rolling his eyes. Smith's posture refused to fall. 

"Don't be like that, mate. Can I have the cheapest thing here, please? Only got a couple of coins." 

At least he got to the point. 

Trott grabbed at a packaged lolly and slid it over the table to Smith. 

"50p, ma- please." Trott scowled at himself. 

"Ah- I'm breaking him!" Smith laughed quietly, counting out silvers in the palm of his hand. He dropped a couple in Trott's hand. 

"Thanks." Trott dropped it into a little jar, and made note to write down the price. 

"Do you think I have enough to buy you a smile?" Smith asked, taking a step away from the stall with a hopeful smile. Trott rolled his eyes and chuckled through his nose.

"You couldn't afford it if you tried, sunshine."


	9. In an airport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross and Trott hook up a few times a year in the same airport, under the same circumstances. Ross wants more.

When Ross first realizes he’s in love with Trott, it's when they’re in an airport, waiting for their flight to America. It’s their umpteenth trip to and from the UK and the States- they've both been called to the USA to help film a movie. Trott assists with the producers, and Ross films. It's the seventh time in two years they've caught the same flight, and now Trott is sitting in the lounge, sipping on an iced tea. He's wearing a dark red coat with a dramatic collar that hugs his neck and flares out to show his face, and its all unbuttoned. His carry on is the same as always; a leather satchel with three buckles and a passcode lock on the zipper. 

Ross watches on. Trott looks calm, at peace, completely ordinary; except he’s anything but those things, and Ross knows it. And Ross has had him in his hotel beds for the past few times they've been travelling and no one knows that. Nobody knows that the man about a yard from him is the man he sees at night, who drinks foreign wine and laughs about life. Who shares never ending cigarettes and sets off hotel smoke alarms with, then ending the night with the same man who spreads out on his back, who lets Ross climb on top of him and trace the planes of his thin body, who lets him hold their hips flush against each other. No one knows that Ross soberly spreads his legs willingly for the man across the lounge, over in the business suite, sipping on his cheap peach iced tea.

The same Trott sits, unaware of his surroundings but Ross knows he’s anything but. Trott has seen this a million times, and it never gets old. 

It's easily believable, watching him from afar, that he really is that careless. That Trott really is just a regular, slightly more fashionable than the average, man, shuffling his newspaper and casually drinking from his tall glass. Ice clinked against the cup, in amongst the pink-orange of the tea. It was Trott's favourite. He got it every time. 

There's something new, though, this time. It's not just a hook-up. Ross feels. Ross wants more than just to drink in a hotel room- he wants to know about what Trott does when they get back to England- where he goes, what he does. What he spends months on end doing until making his way back to the same airport to get the same flight, to spend the same nights with Ross and the same days on a blockbuster movie set. Ross itches. 

His heart pounds in his chest and Ross stands from where he's sat in the economic class lounge. He makes his way to the coffee shop- orders himself a mocha latte and an ice tea. He snatches some sachets of sugar and stuffs them in his hoodie pocket, then makes his way over to Trott- the stranger. Ross swallows a breath, then takes a few steps forward and when he sits down, Trott's jaw clenches. 

“I knew business class was here somewhere,” Ross says slowly. 

Trott's face betrays nothing. A month ago, the memories of him biting his lip and hissing Ross' full name comes to mind, and Ross licks his lips, feels his chest concave.

“Do you always buy drinks for strangers in aeroplane hangers?”

“Only a few times a year." Ross deadpans.

Trott turns to him, and takes the tea from Ross, and flashes a brilliant smile; his eyes shining gold and crinkled around the edges.

“Looks like we're both on the same flight."

Ross feels his chest tighten even further. 

"Indeed." Trott swirls the straw, poking at the lemon slice with the end of the plastic tube.

"I know a great new hotel, and a restaurant not too far from it." 

"How convenient for us, hm?" 

"If you'd want to, of course." Ross makes sure to portray that he isn't as nervous as he feels.

"Are you proposing a date to barely an acquaintance, sir?" 

"If I was?"

"I'd happily oblige." Trott makes sure to bite the straw, staring Ross dead in the eyes.


	10. Dragons (and dungeons)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the attic, Smith is reminded of the old days of DnD.

"Jesus Christ, how many boxes are up here?" Smith waved the dust out of his face as he joined Ross upstairs in the attic. They only ever briefly went up there, for one of two things. Either the Christmas tree, or to throw some old crap up there. 

Today was the former, and Ross was wrestling a large suitcase to look for the tree. 

"Days like these where I hate Trott for not wanting a real tree, y'know?" He grunted, pushing the huge thing to one side, and standing firmly on a little cleared space on the floor. Smith hummed and walked slowly, weaving through boxes and cases and all sorts of useless junk that Trott insisted they kept. 

Ross wiped his brow and then put his hands on his hips. The attic was huge, and dim and dark and really humid. Ross regretted wearing his cord jumper on the way up. 

"Isn't the tree over here somewhere?" Smith eyed a box labelled "Fragile Xmas decor" suspiciously. Ross hit a hand against his leg and swore.

"Fuck. Thanks, Smith." Ross gave him a quick kiss on the cheek as he strode over boxes on the way to the suddenly-obvious tree box. 

Smith looked down at the boxes that had fallen and recognized one in particular. 

"Ross, remember these?" Smith leaned down to grab a little faux velvet pouch and held it up. Ross looked back from hugging the huge cardboard monster and dropped it. 

"Holy shit. Is that-"

"Our old DnD things. From College." Smith grinned, holding up a little model dragon. Its head had fallen off somewhere along the years, and Smith pictured it in its glory. 

_"Natural 20, boys!" Trott pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he laughed, almost falling off of the beanbag aside the coffee table they were playing on. Ross scoffed at the brunet and huffed out of his nose. ___

_"Okay Trott," Smith clapped from behind his divider; two hugely tall books stood up to make a little box for him to hide his notes behind. "You successfully court Lhoke, who is very happy about it." He points to Ross' little figure. ___

_"Why can't you court someone else, Trott?" He groaned as Smith knocked Trott and Ross' figurines together and made lewd kissing noises._

_Trott licked his lips at Ross and dragged his tongue over his braces. Ross mock-gagged._

_"Come on, you can't resist me," Trott pushed his glasses down and peered over them. He shuffled closer to Ross._

_Ross let out a loud laugh and Trott quicklymashed their smiles together messily, Ross sucking at the little metal wore across Trott's teeth, trying not to cut his lip on the brackets. Smith laughed as they kissed, and he put down the figurines to watch._

_They pulled apart smiling stupidly, and Trott wiped a string of saliva off of his chin. Ross scratched at the acne on his jaw and laughed at Smith's face._

_"So, I succeeded in the courting, Smith," Trott coughs into his squeaky voice again, and the other two snort._

Smith looks at Ross and then back down to the headless dragon. 

"We should play again sometime. Take the box downstairs." Ross mumbles to himself, picking up the box from the bottom. Smith hums in affirmation and smiles to himself. 

"We should."


	11. A trip to the ER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ER is basically a&e, here in the UK. 
> 
> Smith has one too many visits to his hospital.

The Bristol Royal Infirmary was cold, too bright and smelled like a dentist's surgery and cleaning supplies, and it made Smith's nose scrunch up and his whole face resemble a raisin. 

He despised hospitals. They were depressing and bland, the floors were too bright, the walls were too white with the huge panel LED lights beaming down on all of the people in the place like a government interrogation centre, and he just felt at unease. 

As a result of Smith's awful luck, he’d always be stuck with some kind of asshole or someone who was too much of a talker to look after him, to give him stitches and a lecture. Smith only came to the hospital because of the fights he’d get in, and his bad habits of being a little too outdoorsy. 

The thing was, Smith knew the things he did were stupid and led to nights in said hospital, but the rush he’d get when he was running through ruins of old buildings, demolished sites with his friends. The days spent doing that were the best kinds, and Smith wouldn't dare just quit that for the sake of saying 'No really, I won't do it ever again' to a nurse. 

There was that, and the gorgeous doctor with a pissed off aura that would usually be seeing him. Smith would be lying if he said that he didn't get giddy at the thought of being taken to A&E, just to see that doctor.

This time, though it had been a run-in with some no good asshole who deserved the black eye he got from Smith and his mate. He stalked girls who waited for buses and looked at them wrong, and it had been way too often. So Smith's fist had collided with the guy's cheek, and he put up a fight. He only ended up with some cut-up and bruised knuckles, a cut across the side of his forehead because the fucking dickhead had a roughly cut ring on his finger.

If it hadn’t been for that, Smith could’ve run home and patched himself up with his little First Aid kit.

The hot doctor with the almost bowl haircut always took care of him, though, even if the whole time he’d cleaned him up he’d complain about Smith's apparently “insanely large anger issues”. 

The doctor cleaned his cuts with a gel that burned and every time Smith would wince or hiss, the sadistic asshole would laugh. He wouldn’t even hide it; his mouth open wide in a grin and golden eyes squinted in silent laughs. 

Half an hour or so after the gel application, Smith was seen again after the doctor had gone off to find Smith's records. 

"You'd think we'd have your medical record close by, seeing as how much you're in here, sunshine." He coughed into his hand, and stood over Smith's bed. 

The taller man smiled, tugging at the cut on his bottom lip. He winced and grimaced at the motion, hand coming up to feel at the slowly scabbing cut. The doctor laughed, once again at Smith's misery, and went around to the other side of the bed to grab at his face and inspect his injuries.

“The stitches seem to be holding fine, that cut on your lip will be a bitch though.” Smith wanted to laugh at his doctor's language, another nurse's low voice in the background warning him to watch his words. Doctor bowl-cut just laughed again and told the nurse that he was sure his patient has heard worse. Which he had. It left the nurse shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“Your knuckles should heal fine, as long as you don’t decide to be stupid and let your anger get the best of you again.” He continued, eyeing the monitors and machines that surround Smith's bed. 

Smith glanced at the badge on the doctor's shirt and finally learned the guy's name. Dr. Trott. Smith nearly snorted.

"I think you're all set to go home now, anyway." Dr Trott smirked, holding the clipboard close to his chest. "Just gather your belongings, Alex." 

Smith grimaced at how his name sounded in the doctor's voice. It didn't sound like it belonged to him, the way he said it. 

Smith looked over to his folded clothes on the little table beside the bed, his leather jacket with patches sewn all over the arms, his Batman wallet and the phone he had, along with his ripped jeans and heavy leather combat boots. Smith stood up and was very suddenly aware of the cool air reaching his back. He felt eyes on him, and scowled at his doctor. 

Funnily enough, the shorter man quickly matched his eyes again, acting as if he wasn't just checking his patient out. 

Smith grumbled and tried to close the open back of the hospital gown he was forced to wear. Trott had probably chosen it out for him, the bastard.

“You can change in the bathroom, Mr. Smith, unless you'd want to change out in the open." Dr. Trott's smile was back, a hand on his hip. 

“Why the hell do you even make the gowns like that?” Smith questioned, bringing his clothes closer to his chest and cradling them like they were his pride and joy and facing his naked ass towards the bathroom door to further shield it from Trott's eyes.

“Consider it punishment, for continually injuring yourself. Besides, it’s nothing new to anyone on the floor, plenty of patients are wearing those gowns. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.” His doctor responded, his cheap smirk plastered on his attractive features.

“I dunno, Trott. I think my ass looks better that anyone that's in these wards." Smith poked his tongue out before slipping into the bathroom, close enough to hear Trott choke on his breath. 

It was only when Smith was changing, however, had he remembered that the fight that brought him here had taken a toll on not only his face and hands, but also his clothes. His boots were scuffed and his jeans had a new tear on his shin. His shirt had a huge tear right down the front, basically turning it into a shitty cardigan. Smith groaned loudly at his black eye and the stitches on his forehead. He looked a state.

Running a hand through his locks nervously one last time, he exhaled and turned to leave the restroom.

“Spent quite some time in there, I there a problem?” Dr. Trott teased, his dark eyes in small slits while he smiled a sly grin. "Or do you just really love your reflection?"

Smith scoffed and waved him off, following to where the doctor would show him some forms and paperwork, promising not to do it again and then the inevitable goodbye would be given.

As much as Smith hated being in the hospital, he really liked his doctor. Even if he was a sadistic arsehole with a smart mouth. 

"Take care, yeah?" Trott would say, hope- maybe sadness in his eyes. Smith would nod, and salute before walking back out into the dark night, shivering without his shirt. 

\---

"You know, Smith, when I say 'See you soon' I didn't expect you to take it so literally." Dr Trott said, face soft with worry as he looked down at where Smith was hunched over on his table. 

"What can I say, I- Can't stay-" Smith hacked out from behind coughs, his whole body shaking. Trott shushed him and handed him a bottle of water. 

"Slow down there, sunshine. No need for sarcasm if you've damaged your trachea." He hummed, and Smith grabbed for the bottle with clammy fingers. 

Smith's coughing had calmed and he sipped happily at the cold water, settled nicely on the table. Trott sighed, blinking slowly. 

“So what happened?” He asked, sitting in his chair and looking up at Smith.

“I walked right out into a road.” Smith wheezed. "Right in front of a Police car, too. I think my stitches opened up again and my throat's dying, mate." He said quietly, pointing between his neck and his forehead.

Smith for once couldn’t believe his shitty luck. Every muscle in his body ached and screamed for relief.

“You might be happy to know that I've already began giving you something for the pain. It’ll kick in shortly.” Trott patted the table.

Smith took a moment and looked around, noticing he was in a private room this time, no noisy roommates to have to deal with. He heard Trott sighing again.

“You need to be more careful. I know you might not like me and like to ignore my instructions because you think it makes you cool or whatever, but all its gonna do is leave you dead or paralyzed. Neither of us want that, y'know?" He voiced, his face darkened and worrying his lip between his teeth.

“What makes you think I don’t like you?” Smith asked, his voice smaller than usual, partly from the pain and partly because of the question. Trott coughed into his hand and looked down to the floor, pushing away from the table to get a paper from his desk.

“I don’t treat you as kindly as I should. I treat you in a way I don’t treat the other patients. I’m sure you don’t appreciate it.” His doctor began, and it hurts Smith that theres no smile in the man's voice.

Smith pondered at the words for a moment, taking in what he said. It’s true that Trott treated him differently, seemed to take his injuries more serious than other nurses but still tries to make him smile and see more than just the white walls of the dingy hospital. 

Smith had unconsciously took in his advice, only now realizing how many less fights he’s been in as of late. Even then, most of them were for good reason and he’d barely get injured. It seems like he’d get hurt the bare minimum to be admitted into the hospital. To see Trott, he thought.

The doctor was the only one who seemed to even care for him. At first, Smith had told himself it was just professionalism, that it was part of his job to care. But Trott had always cared for him more than his job required, going as far as giving him a good smack across the head once to try and knock some sense into the man. It was a bold move, but it worked when it came to someone like Smith.

As Trott began to leave to go fetch something, Smith finally found the words to say, hoping they were the ones that Trott would want to hear.

“I don’t hate you. I don’t not like you. You treat me differently, sure, but with good intention. Out of everyone who’s lucky enough to have a hottie like me in their life-"

Trott snorted at the comment, propping his office door open with his foot, allowing Smith to smile at his small laugh, and he continued.

“-No one’s really put in any effort to try and stop me from getting hurt like you have." 

Trott smiled warmly at the comment, and closed the door open.

The short doctor shook his head, mouth slightly agape. His voice was small, smaller than ever, and Smith nearly missed it as it mumbled out a light ‘thank you’.

Trott left for a minute or so, and Smith fell back down on the flimsy table-bed pillow with a smile. It was enough to make him forget the pain that echoed all throughout his body and fall asleep to the sounds of the roads outside.


	12. Midnight snack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember that post-war au? Me too. 
> 
> Ross relapses, and Trott helps out.

Trott was awoken by a loud clang of something metal hitting more metal, and he gasped, immediately grabbing for Smith, in front of him, sitting up and looking around frantically. 

Smith barely stirred in his deep sleep, and Trott almost waved it off as his dream. Past memories. He was about to sit back down and turn to face Ross, when he was suddenly faced with the bed half empty where Ross would usually be tucked up against Trott's left side. Trott grabbed at the pillow, and felt it was cold. He scrambled to stand up, and squinted at the little LED alarm clock. 00:23.

Trott's walking was silent as he walked around the house, hearing more clangs of metal, occasional unhuman hisses. Would someone have broken in? Were there animals in their apartment? 

He reached the doorway of the kitchen, and frowned at what his weary, poor eyes had seen.

"Ross?" Trott wiped sleep from his eyes, squinting in the light. "What're you doing up?" 

Ross was wide awake at the stove, cooking scrambled eggs and turned around sharply with his hands at his side. "Preparing breakfast for the troops, sir-" Ross' words go from practised and unflawed to a stumbled mess in two seconds or so, and feels himself slouch in his boots. "Trott. I meant Trott." 

The shorter man in the doorframe feels himself melt a little, as Ross punches his leg, mutters to himself. He's got his full uniform on and sweat dripping from his forehead, dark smudged bags under his eyes. His posture was as stiff as ever, heels together. It set off a pain in Trott, one that he had always been aware of, but it never hurt any less when it reminded him of its presence. 

"Oh, sweetheart." Ross' heart sunk when he heard the emotions in Trott's voice. 

Guilt. Sympathy. 

Trott walked over slowly, down the narrow kitchen to turn off the stove and Ross just stepped back, his posture failing him. He breathed loudly and Trott scraped the eggs into the bin, acutely aware of Ross watching his every move. Trott squinted to see without his glasses on, and tried to drop the pan into the basin of the sink as quietly as possible. He'd wash it later in the day after they all had rested properly. 

Care. Love.

Green beer bottles filled with water had thin stemmed roses inside lined the windowsill above the sink; Smith's new coping mechanic. He would spend hours scraping off the labels of empty bottles, mumbling to himself his mantra, peeling off the scraps of damp label with vinegar and a sponge. Trott would take the roses from one of their neighbours' window boxes on his way home from work at the pharmacy. He promised Smith that they could buy some window boxes or a little garden plot in the spring, after the winter's frost had passed. Ross didn't do too well with coping mechanisms, and hadn't found one for his needs yet. He worked days at the shelter, with the dogs, but always came home only to wake in early hours quivering, shouting out names of comrades Trott nor Smith had ever heard. 

Ross shook against the wall, holding himself. Trott turned and held out his hand. 

"Come on, let's go to the bathroom, yeah? Get you cleaned up." He offered a gentle smile, and Ross nearly fainted on the spot. He didn't say anything, yet took Trott's hand. They walked through the the little bathroom slowly. The apartment was cold, and the only sounds were the faint snoring from the bedroom and the quiet footfalls of Ross and Trott, as the shorter guided him through. 

Trott tugged on the light pulley and bright light flooded the tiny room. Trott stood beside Ross as they looked into the mirror above the sink. Trott patted at his arm. 

"You can take off your uniform, Ross. Don't need it on anymore." He spoke slowly and as gently as he could manage at midnight with someone on the verge of relapsing under his touch. Ross flinched at the words, and Trott immediately bit his lip. 

"Hey, I only mean for now. Just so we can rest, ok? Don't want to get it all creased in bed, do we?" He tried. He knew it wasn't a whole truth, but it was the best thing to do. Nothing else would work right now. Ross softened a little. 

"Can I-"

"You want help?" 

"Please." Ross' voice was small and quiet in the back of his throat. Trott smiled. 

"Thank you for asking, sunshine. I'm so proud of you, okay? You've come so far." He said, and took the jacket off Ross' shoulders. He folded it over itself them sat it down on the edge of the bathtub. Ross unbuttoned his shirt, and Trott cooed softly, patting his arm. 

Ross passed him the shirt, and Trott folded it up, laid it atop the jacket, and repeated until Ross was down to his briefs. He looked at Trott's reflection in the mirror, the way he rested the side of his face against Ross' shoulder. Ross felt his throat sting, and he gasped for air. Trott kissed at his arm. 

"Come on, Ross." The shorter man said, holding the taller man's hand. "Let's go to bed, okay? I've got you." 

Trott would sometimes find it comical- how small he was compared to people like Smith and Ross. They could easily beat him to a pulp, but they were very gentle with him. Because he helped them, and because he loved them. 

Trott shuffled into the middle of their bed and patted the spot on his left. Ross silently crawled up, the mattress creaking in complaint. He held onto Trott's hip, mashing his face into his ribs. Trott petted Ross's hair, combing through the longer strands at the front of his face. 

"You're not out on the field anymore, sweetheart." Trott said very quietly, and Ross nodded against Trott's side. "But if you want, you can fight for us, to keep us safe. You can be our soldier, sunshine." 

Ross let out a sob against Trott's protruding hipbone, his tears dampening the olive skin and making a wet patch on their sheets, Trott's hand in his hair and Ross' long, scarred arms wrapped around his thighs.


	13. Someone else's wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That au where Trott plays violin. For leonandon, and the Sherlock-y au I've grown to like.

"Trott?" Smith peered into the living room, knocking on the door and sticking his head into the room. Trott didn't move from where he was reading in his armchair- the tall backed one that was velvet cushioned in a deep emerald colour. The shorter, chestnut haired man was curled up with his feet tucked under himself with his book on his lap, his chin in his hand. The other hand's long fingers rubbed the corner of the next page in-between forefinger and thumb, eager to turn it over. 

"Come in." 

And Smith did; revealing himself in the large room. Ross was on the plush leather sofa, tan coloured with one too many tasselled cushions. They matched the great rug on the centre of the floor. Ross had his headphones in, which were plugged into his laptop, righteously placed on his lap. His long legs were spread in front of him, and he was too busy listening to whatever on the screen to even notice Smith's presence. He padded into the room and stood a foot or so from Trott's chair. The room was so quiet, yet comfortable. 

Ross gently beatboxed under his breath, and Smith found a strange comfort in it. 

"Trott." 

"Wait," Trott held up a finger, quickly studying the last line on his page, then smiling. Smith held his breath, and Trott rested his finger on his last word. He looked up to meet Smith's slightly unnerved expression. 

"I need a favour, from one of you." He announced, looking down at his socks. 

"Yes?" Trott sat up, unfolding himself so that his legs hung off of the seat. Ross took out a headphone and looked at them quizzically. Smith took a breath, and looked back up to meet Trott's curious stare.

"I need a plus one for a wedding I've been invited to. The couple are very close with me. It would mean the world." He said, and settled for sitting on the arm of the sofa; by Ross' feet that were crossed over by the ankle. Smith tried not to fall backwards. 

The man in the velvet chair shifted uncomfortably at the statement, and pinched at the skin on the bridge of his nose. The air seemed to still. "I've told you that I dislike weddings before, have I not?" Trott exhaled slowly, placing his book facing down on his lap. He placed a hand on it's spine to hold it. "I am sure I did." Trott frowned to himself, scratching at his chin. 

"It's not going to be busy-" 

"You did, Chris," Ross interjected suddenly. "August 23rd, it was a Tuesday. You told us after reading an article about social events. We were eating Yakisoba chicken." 

Smith struggled to remember when Ross had started talking to him, since moving in. Trott had told him that Ross refused to talk to the old housemate, that Smith obviously was a beholder of some power that opened up Ross' vocal abilities. He can't remember when he learned about Ross' talent too; his eidetic memory. It was amazing to say the least, and both Smith and Trott alike were often caught up in just listening to details of just what happened exactly two years ago.

"Thank you, Ross." Trott smiled at him, from behind Smith, who stared on in confusion.

"Can you come, then, Ross?" He turned his head, looking down at the very comfortable man. He had put his laptop against the side of the sofa, safely stowed away and locked. 

"I don't see why not." Ross perked up. "Shall I wear a suit?" 

Smith grinned widely, and snuck backwards to land right in-between Ross' legs. Ross furrowed his eyebrows at the gesture, but smiled upon Smith scrambling to hug the brunet. 

Trott watched on, and closed his book, placing it on the table beside his chair. 

"I'm sure," he tried to stable his wobbling voice, and coughed again. "-That you'll both have a lovely time." 

Smith lifted his face from where it was firmly planted in-between Ross' pectorals. 

"Thanks, Trott!"

The shorter man swore at himself internally. He should have been more forward. 

\--

"Can I go with you?" Trott was stood by Ross' bedroom door, watching as Smith and Ross sorted their shirts, glancing into the same mirror- a large restored antique, with a carved oak frame. Trott was barely noticed as Ross swatted at Smith's shoulder to brush off some strands of hair from the auburn haired man brushing it so much. 

"Trott?" Smith turned around to see the smaller man, with something resembling a folded suit and dress shoes in a neat pile upon his arm. 

"I'd like to take back what I said, about disliking weddings." He spoke slowly, and Smith quirked an eyebrow. 

Ross frowned as he adjusted his tie, glancing down at the complicated knot he was attempting. 

"Course you can come, Trott. Unless it's a problem with you, Ross?" 

Ross merely shrugged and faced the mirror again. 

"At least my parents will finally be happy." Smith smiled into his reflection. 

Trott slipped into the room and pressed himself against the wall, placing his clothes on Ross' chair which had been placed there to make room for the taller members of the house. Trott neatly began to change. 

"How so?" Trott called out. 

"Since we've got such a big family, there's lots of weddings," Smith combed through his hair again. "They've been pressing for me to get a date for God-knows how long."

"Why are they so determined?" Ross pitched in, flattening his tie against his chest. The deep, royal blue shone against the plain white shirt.

"It's been a while since I've been in a relationship. And I'm all the way over here in London- across the country from them - so they think I'm out here, trapped in my house without leaving for weeks on end and wasting away. Partnership's all I'm worth at this point, to them." He said it all too easily. So many times turned the awkward subject into one of the most asked things about Smith, so this time when he explained, there was a lack of emotion in his voice. 

"So, why don't you date?" Trott asked bluntly.

Smith frowned. "Can't find anyone. I'm not a fan of dancing around someone new every other week and work my way up to real romance. I'd like to think I would know that someone's the one."

"So?" Trott pressed, buttoning his off-white shirt. "It won't all just come to you, Alex, you have to work for it too."

Smith felt his breath catch in his throat. His face fell, and he put down his comb. "I guess so."

Ross eyed him hard, and looked like he wanted to keep pushing the issue, but he backed down. "You said your family is across the country, where?"

"Dorset." He deadpanned. 

Ross shook his head. "Where's the wedding being held? I want to contribute to the travel expenses." 

Smith smiled. "You really don't have to, Ross." 

"I want to, though." Ross grinned back. Trott watched on quietly, brushing dust from his blazer. He had a feeling that the wedding bride and groom wouldn't be his centre of attention, but rather- 

"Trott? Can you help with my tie?"


	14. Breaking and Entering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Organised crime au; a bank heist.

The only good thing about being in such a small town during his time working, in Trott's humble opinion, was that there were less snobby people that he had to put up with.

Sure, he had seen some of his family and ex friends as he drove out of the city, but it was much easier to ignore someone on the road, rather than being stopped in the middle of a street and having to pretend he enjoyed listening to them blab on about their newly renovated houses, about their newly purchased cars, about their new wives, all the while asking where Trott's rented house was, when the second-hand car would break down, when he would finally marry a wealthy woman. No, on the road he just drove passed them, singing to a song on his cheaply bought aux cord connected to his reasonably priced phone. 

There was that, and his family didn’t seem too keen to talk to him after his father's barbecue that he had hosted a few weeks ago; where Trott had finally had enough, and announced to the whole family and his father’s friends and colleagues that he was queer, and that he liked it when there’s a cock in his beautiful ass.

It was a big ‘fuck you’ to everyone, including his father. After that, he was involved with everything and anything that would drive his family away. He had a shady job now, lived on the road. The rich, stick-up-the-ass attitude wasn't a life for him.

So now, Trott was reversing into a bank's parking lot. Another work day. 

“At least the traffic wasn’t a bitch,” Trott muttered to himself. 

He checked his watch as he closed over the car door, and left the key under his seat. 

He strode towards the large building quickly, taking in the sights around him as unsuspecting as possible. 

The building was obviously a restored one, with pillars and patterns engraved into every panel on the ceiling. A chandelier was unlit and hanging from above, and Trott could barely tell if it was a fake or not. He walked briskly to the rows of typing staff behind glass panels, and spied a young blonde with dark eyes and bouncy hair. 

"Morning," he said, just to take her attention off of a piece of paper in front of her. She looked up to meet his waiting gaze and smiled. 

"Good morning! How can I help you today, sir?" Trott gently smiled at her enthusiasm. 

"I would like to see my father- A Thomas Arding's - will, please." The statement was a well practised one, and the girl, who's nametag suggested her name was Dorothy, nodded and started typing away on the little keyboard in front of her. Trott could see the reflection of the screen in her wide eyes, and he rested his hands on the desk. 

"Sir, I’m sorry but you’re not authorized to see that will." She told him in a nervous voice. She looked young, maybe just graduated from college where she did her double degree in banking and business administration.

“Dorothy, may I call you that?” Trott asked, a charming smile plastered on his face that made her smile back shyly. “I have a letter from my father himself and signed by our lawyer, indicating that I am, in fact, allowed to see these wills.”

He took out the thick letter that he had folded neatly inside his jacket and pushed it on the desk.

Behind him, he acutely heard the two other customers murmuring lightly as they went about doing their business with the bank-tellers.

The bank was small, and it fit a small town like this one. Since there was not many customers, only one security guard was at the entrance. Trott was so used to being a minimum of 10 or so in the same room that it seemed ridiculous. 

“Oh, gosh! I’m sorry for being rude! I didn’t know that you have an authorized letter!” the young woman said, her tone apologetic and friendly. Trott upped his charming smile at her, all gleaming teeth.

She unfolded the letter and rapidly read the flourish words, all the way down to the signature. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a beautiful smile?” Trott asked, to get her attention on him, rather than the letter.

Dorothy let out a giggle and smiled at him more. “Well, I’ve been told once or twice,” she said, batting her eyelashes, giggling some more.

She folded the letter neatly and said, “The document seems authentic upon my inspection. I will just retrieve the wills for you, sir,” Dorothy said, smiling pleasantly as Trott returned the gesture, bouncing out of her chair. 

Dorothy came back after 5 minutes with a thick file in her hand and she placed it in front of Trott, underneath the glass, and he noticed that she was angling herself in a way that her cleavage would be all too noticeable for his eyes.

Trott took the wills out from the chunky file.

“Thank you, Do–.”

Before he could finish the word, a loud smash rung through the whole room, and everyone's attention, including Trott and Dorothy's, turned to regard a man with a baseball bat who had broke in through the glass door, sending shards flying along the faux-marble floor. 

"Alright, you filthy animals!" The man yelled, his voice booming around the walls. He rested the bat on the back of his neck, over his shoulders, where a large bag also sat on them. He was dressed in all black and had a balaclava covering his face. "This is a damn robbery! Get on the ground and no one gets hurt, yeah?" 

Everyone made small noises of fear and shuffled to their knees and hands, crouching down to the ground as the thief laughed. Trott slipped the file into his pocket as he slunk down to the floor, staring at the man. 

The man strode to the receptionist who was quivering underneath her desk. He peered underneath, resting his hand on it. "Now, love, the real reason-" 

"Hands on your heads, all of you!" Someone else broke in, pointing a gun around to the small crowd who were already gripping the floor for dear life.

People screamed, and the first robber turned to look at the intruder. 

"Oi, you too! I'm not afraid to use this!" The man had paint on his face, all khaki green and flecks of black. 

"Get your own fucking bank!" 

"No, you, come on, fucking down on the floor!" The painted one shouted. They were about a foot apart now. 

"Who robs a bank with no mask?" By this time, the two were facing each other. Trott could have sworn he could see the faintest smile pass from between them. He wanted to punch them.

“Shut up and put the money in the bag," the painted man said, raising his gun to the masked man's face.

Trott sighed heavily, and slowly stood up, the wills sitting heavy in his pocket. He heard a few people gasping. 

The two robbers turned to look at the short man. 

“Hey!" He called out, as if their attention wasn't already on him. 

They started walking towards him, everyone's eyes on the three. Trott recognised them now, with how close they were. 

"Are you serious?" They chimed, looking him up and down. 

Trott felt the punch to his jaw too little too late and when the knuckle connected with his face, he felt blood trickling freely from his lips.

“You can't take risks, brown eyes." The masked one said. Trott saw that the height difference between the two was minute. 

"You wouldn't dare." Trott licked his bleeding lips. 

"You should have shot 'im in the mouth so he would shut up. But that would be a waste too. Could put that pretty mouth of yours to much better use." The first one smiled devilishly. 

You're losing character, Trott wanted to say.

The other people-come-hostages looked down on the floor, afraid that if they looked up, the robbers would pick on them and did something nasty to them too.

One of the robbers walked off to the receptionist again, and Trott didn't have to hear what he was saying. Take me to the vault. 

“–I mean no hard feelings here, miss. We’ll just take a bit ‘cos I know these rich bastards have thousands of pounds and they won’t even notice what we're taking-" 

The robber by the desk kept on talking. The other one was in front of Trott, gun still in hand. Trott sucked on his split lips and winced when his teeth grazed the wound. 

The robber by the entrance walked slowly towards the desk that Trott and Dorothy were at before, bag full on his back. He lifted up the fake documents on the desk, and threw them down again.

And then everything snapped when the security guard rolled over and pressed the red button under his desk.

“Shit!” Trott let slip, and the robbers both stared at him. 

The man closest to Trott grabbed his arm. Nothing else mattered at the moment- the act was dropped, the hostages were too paralyzed to tell what was happening. 

Trott hit at the second robber's arm. "You were meant to disable any guards!" 

"I'm sorry, Trott-" 

"There's no use apologising now! Come on!" He yelled, and started sprinting towards the entrance.

From a block away distance, he could hear police sirens wailing loudly and he grabbed at the other two's hoodies and pulled them to his car. He shoved them into the back seats and jumped into the driver's seat. 

"Did you get-"

“Fuck! Drive already, Trott!” One of them yelled- already wiping the paint from his face. Trott tutted, and started up the car. He saw the two frantically changing their clothes in the back seat, taking off their gloves and masks. 

Two police cars skidded across the parking lot as Trott pulled out from the lot. The police completely dismissed them and the three laughed as they moved as far away from the crime scene as possible.

-

After driving for almost two hours, they stopped at an abandoned apartment block just outside of the little town.

“Smith, Ross,” Trott breathed out as he flexed his arms, sore from steering. 

Ross only had a few flecks of black paint on his face, and he stirred out of a sleep he had fallen into. Trott clambered into the back seats with them both, and started wiping some paint off of Ross' brow.

"You have to keep your character better, Smith." He murmured loud enough for the auburn haired man to hear, right beside him. "And Ross, he did have a point. Masks are the best for disguises."

Ross sighed. "Sorry, Trott." 

He patted at Ross' cheek once he had finished wiping away the paint. "It's alright. We got money, though. You did well, too, Smith. Apart from punching me, but that was part of the act." Trott shuffled until he was sat square on Smith's lap, his hand on the taller man's nape, playing with tiny bits of hair. 

Smith hummed, and reached his hand out to hold Ross'. Trott leaned in to kiss him gently, just below the bottom lip. Smith is clean shaven for the sake of the break in, and Trott revels in it, as he peppers feather light kisses along his jaw. 

Ross shifts in the seat beside them to crowd around Smith, kissing at Trott's ear and biting the lobe to get his attention, as Smith and Trott's mouths finally meet and they spill little noises down each other's throats. Trott sneaks his arm around Ross'neck to pull them closer together, and Smith has a hand on Trott's hip. Trott pulls back from Smith to kiss Ross, without once opening his eyes. Smith turns to kiss at Trott's neck, where his shirt collar had fallen slightly to reveal the skin. 

"I'm so proud of you both," he whispered, leaning his forehead against the bridge of his nose as Smith undoes Trott's belt. "So proud." 

Ross made a happy sound in the back of his throat as he wrestled off his shirt. "Did you manage to get that guy's will?" 

Trott took off his coat and patted the pocket. Smith and Ross both exhaled slowly. "Y'know, I didn't think you'd get away with it." Smith said, unbuttoning the shirt that laid under his hoodie. 

"You underestimate me so much, sunshine." Trott pressed his fingers to Smith's neck again, and pushed him towards Ross. They both kissed warmly as Trott rid himself of his clothes, and smiled at them all. 

"So proud." 

"Trott?" Smith had pulled back from Ross with a string of saliva between them. "Where are we going next?" 

Trott took a moment, and eyed the bag overflowing with money by Smith's feet. 

"A cash converter. We're going somewhere hot. Sun, sea, beach, and you two, huh?" He smiled widely, giddy at the thought. 

They all smiled at each other, then lost themselves in lips and warm touches again.


	15. Olympic's / Sports

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trott and Ross are close friends and gymnasts. A very shameless comfort fic for myself, but here it is. 
> 
> NSFW content; Long overdue in this advent.

"Ross, higher." Trott says as he stretches his arms towards the heavens, breathing even as he could muster it to be.

"Trott." Ross shifts his grip on Trott's thin waist.

"Come on, mate, use those big biceps of yours and get me higher." Trott encouraged him, tapping against Ross' hand.

Ross once again grunts, for the fiftieth time that evening, and suddenly Trott is flying in the air. He twists his body, throwing all of his body weight into the spin, and lands on the thick spongy mat with no more than a loud exhale, only for his legs to buckle out beneath him, sending him careening to the mat like a dropped dart.

"Trott!" Ross loudly exclaims, falling to his knees at his training partner's side. "Are you alright?" Trott pushes Ross' hands away when he pats at the older man's knee.

"Fuck!" Trott suddenly slams his hand down onto the mat, and Ross can't help but jump slightly. He sits up and sees the black haired man's wide eyes. "Sorry." Trott apologizes with a half-hearted smile, "I'm fine, but this isn't working."

The two had been practising the same move for almost three hours at the training hall. It was a school's gym hall, really, but they rented a six hour slot to use the mats and horses there. They had all of the equipment needed for their training, and the distance from the school to their homes was incredibly short. Much better than paying a hundred quid bimonthly for half of the sessions and half of the equipment at the gym in town. Not that any of those factors were affecting their performance. Trott was determined that they'd hit this move just right this evening if it killed him.

"Then we'll try something else." Ross' strong hands grips Trott's knee and shakes it gently and reassuringly, in a way that could only come from years upon years of mutual training for the Olympics, and friendship. When Trott makes a face and falls back onto his back, Ross quirks a brow.

"Okay, how about I take you out for waffles? At that place that you've been drooling over for the past few months. And then we can come back tomorrow and work out the move?"

Trott props himself up on his elbows, and rolls his eyes, "You know I can't have waffles."

Ross frowns. "There's no pleasing you, is there?"

Trott chuckles deeply in his throat, and Ross tries again.

"What about, I take us for dinner, and maybe you can stay the night, I can get that air mattress out for you, and I'll make you wholegrain waffles in the morning. Then a whole day of training so we can get this one done and dusted for our routine."

Trott smiles at the suggestion, and reaches his hands out for Ross to haul him up. He does so effortlessly, like Trott is lighter than air, and he holds him an arms length from himself.

"Thank you, sunshine. I don't know how to repay you."

"You don't have to, Trott." Ross smiles, and picks up the mat, dragging it along the polished floor to the huge storage closet.

"Really?" Trott pads over to the benches to sit down and tug on his socks.

Ross nods, and pulls the doors of the closet closed. "Really."

"Tell me more about your waffles, Mr. Hornby." Trott smiles and stands up, taking his shower gel and towels from his massive sports bag.

Ross walked over to unzip his own bag, rooting around for his things. "Whole grain, and vegan."

Trott smiles at his friend with all of the kindness in the world. "With strawberries?"

"Of course." Ross smirks, his towel over his arm and holds his little travel bottle of body wash in-between his teeth, hauling his bag over his shoulder. Trott follows, holds his shower gel in his hand.

When they get through to the shower rooms, they fall into a steady rhythm. They had seen each other before, far too many times to be concerned. Ross tugs off his clothes and tosses them into his his duffle, and soon the rest of his sweaty uniform is in there too. Trott neatly folds each item of clothing he removes, one by one, and sets out his cleaner post-session clothes neatly beside the bag, his shoes on the ground, just outside of the shower room. He walks in with his towel around his neck, and drops it onto a hook on the wall opposite to the five showers. Ross has taken the one in the far corner, and the humidity was enough to steam up his vision.

If there was one thing that Trott had discovered after years of training and performing with Ross, it's that he takes the hottest showers known to mankind. He had always joked about turning the kettle on when Ross wanted to wash his hands.

"Trott," Ross called out over the sound of heavy droplets of water hitting against the floor. Trott was just about to turn his own water stream on, but paused.

"Yeah?"

"Can you reach my back? I have a knot right there." Ross twisted his hand to point to the small of his back, and Trott rolled his eyes, walking up towards him. He placed his hands on the back of each side of Ross' waist, the fingers all clinging on, while his thumbs kneaded at the lump in Ross' back.

Ross made a lewd noise and it echoed in the room. Trott smirked, and rubbed it harder still, trying to work it away.

"God, Trott. You're good at that."

Trott let his hands fall down to Ross' hips and he stood on his toes to hook his chin on Ross' shoulder.

"If you'd like, I can repay you for dinner early."

Ross could hear the smile in his partner's voice and grinned. "How would you do that, Trott?"

"Turn around, sunshine, and I'll show you." Trott dropped down to his knees, yet kept his posture straight. He pressed his thumbs in the taller man's popliteal fossa, and it nearly made Ross' legs fold from underneath him.

Trott sucked a pink mark into Ross' thigh, close to his hip. Ross let his hand fall to rest on Trott's scalp, already wet from the hot spray of water that ran down Ross' chest.

"Fuck, Trott."

Trott took hold of Ross' cock and jerked it slowly, staring up at the standing man quietly, before pressing a kiss to the inside of Ross' thigh.

Ross looks down to meet his friend's stare, his head facing away from the stream of water as it cascades over the top of his head and down his shoulders, running down over the sculpted, powerful form of his torso and collecting in the hollow of his hipbones. The water runs in rivulets over where Trott is gripping Ross' pale thighs.

Trott takes Ross into his mouth, his dark eyes closed in bliss, and Ross throws his head back so that the water falls hard on his face. Trott bobs his head gently, hugging onto the taller man's thighs. Ross tugs at Trott's hair gently, guiding it up and down.

Trott pulled off of Ross' cock with a lewd pop before kissing the head. "Down here, sunshine," his voice was deep and echoed in the steamed up room. Ross peered down and saw the line of precum that had spilled down Trott's chin, and Ross nearly collapsed. Trott wrapped his hand around his friend and tugged and twisted his wrist, pointing Ross' dick towards Trott's lips. Ross came undone, the little chirp-like noises escaping his throat like golden finches singing. Ross came across Trott's agape mouth harshly, dripping down his cheek. Ross collapsed against the wall beside the shower and breathed heavily as Trott rose to his feet, swallowing and grimacing at the taste.

"Thank-"

"Ross, don't say thank you after a blowie," Trott laughed, and strode over to his own shower, hitting the power button forcefully. "Besides, it was a repayment. So, you're welcome."

* * *

An hour or so later, the two were washed and dressed again; Ross in his University sweatshirt and Trott in his oversized shirt and jeans. After walking with their huge bags for a good half hour, the two gymnasts stood in front of an Indian restaurant. Ross had said that it was the best chasni he had ever tasted, and Trott took his word for it.

The two were settled into the relatively quiet restaurant with menus and a jug of water, which they were both more than happy about. They chatted about their competitors and their strange uniforms for the Olympics.

Ross and Trott had been practising together since they were in their early teenage years, and back then they had no idea that they would still be doing it all today, at 26 and 27. Trott was rubbing at his stubble and reading down the rice selection. Ross sighed and placed down his menu.

"Do you think we'll be accepted?" Ross asked suddenly. He usually asked it for reassurance, and he fidgeted under the table. Trott turned a page of his menu, and spoke without meeting Ross' eyes.

"They'd be stupid not to. We're amazing."

"We are, aren't we?" Ross smiled weakly. His biceps still burned from all of the lifts today.

"We are, my sunbeam," Trott grinned sweetly.

"That's a new one." Ross said. "I'm all for the tandoori chicken and naan bread. What about you?"

"Chicken chasni, since you recommended it so well. I'll steal some of your naan, too." He smiled, and Ross stood up. Trott frowned slightly.

"Gotta go to the bar to order, Trott."

* * *

They get into Ross' house when the rain hits, and they're both soaked down to skin underneath their clothes. The fabric clung to them and it was just uncomfortable. So naturally, as soon as Ross got the door open, it was a race to the shower. Trott won, and Ross punched the door, hearing the other man's cheerful laugh echo around the tiny room.

"Do you want the air mattress?" Ross called into the bathroom from behind the door. Trott coughed loudly.

"Nah, mate! I'll take the other side of your bed!" He called out, ridding himself of the cold clothes. Ross nodded to himself and strode off to his bedroom. He stripped and patted himself down with a warm towel that had been resting on his radiator all day, and smiled at the warmth. It was so comfortable.

When Trott comes out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, Ross is already tucked under his sheets happily.

"Got you some trousers there, mate." He pointed over to the bedside table on the other side of the bed, and Trott smiled.

"Thanks, Ross. For everything today."

"Yeah." Ross' voice goes husky and he clears it, swallowing heavily.

Trott smiles as he snuggles into the sheets. "Good job today," he says, tugging the duvet up to his chin. "Have you been working out more, behind my back? You've never managed to throw me that high before."

"Maybe I have," Ross smiles, his eyes closed. "I'll be just as good tomorrow. Night, Trott."

"Okay, sunshine. Goodnight."

* * *

The next morning, Ross managed to wake up before Trott without an alarm, and Ross considered that an awardable feat.

After easing himself out of bed at a painfully slow pace as to not wake the sleeping gymnast beside him, he padded quietly into the hallway, shoving his joggers on and shoes, and tugged his hoodie over his head. He took his house key and left for his morning run.

When he got back twenty minutes later, Ross was much more awake and he tugged off his hoodie and padded into the kitchen. Waffles.

The tiles were cold underneath his bare feet, and he walked uncomfortably while gathering all of the ingredients. A few minutes later he was mixing the batter and had gotten the iron out, setting it to heat up.

So far he hadn’t heard any noise from his room, so Trott was probably still sleeping. Either that or pretending. He poured the batter onto the little lattice pattern and closed the lid down. He stirred the rest of the batter to guess how many waffles he could make with what he had.

“Mmm,” Trott leaned into the kitchen.

"Morning, sunbeam!"

“Oh, fuck off," Trott smiled tiredly, wiping his eyes.

“Hungry?”

“Am I ever. Where have you put all of your plates this week?"

"Left cupboard." Ross pointed his spoon towards the little cabinet by Trott's head. Trott fished out two plates and rooted around in the drawers to find some forks.

Ross opened up the waffle iron and smiled at them. Perfectly formed. He scraped the two waffles out of the moulds and placed one on each plate. He poured more batter into the iron. Trott, who had found a fork, stabbed right into one and bit into it happily.

“So? Are they edible?” Ross was trying not to watch Trott's face too intently.

"Needs strawberries." He chuckled, and dove into Ross' fridge. Ross laughed to himself at how Trott poised with his foot in the air, a perfect split against the fridge door.

* * *

This was their third try in the evening.

Ross shoved Trott a good two feet into the air and watched as the brunet spun before reaching out to catch him. Trott dropped until he wrapped his feet to point into the popliteal of Ross' long legs to keep steady. They spun slowly, with Trott holding onto Ross' arms which were holding onto the thinner man's waist tightly, Trott's head resting against the taller's shoulder, his eyes closed. They spun until they gradually stopped, and Trott dropped to the floor. He smiled up at Ross.

"I told you we could do it after good food and a rest, didn't I?" Ross smiled, and Trott playfully punched his arm.


	16. Waking up in a foreign country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to that organised crime au. Very short and sweet.

The room is all white; its walls, the curtains, polished floor panels, the bedframe, the entire ensuite bathroom. The gentle breeze blew the paper thin curtains out into the spacious room like ascending flags, framing the window that channeled rich, bright light into the bedroom, casting shadows on the three laid comfortably on the bed. The sky outside was a great cyan blue, stretching cloudless across the line of the ocean; blue meeting navy. 

When Trott stirs from his quiet sleep, the first thing he regards is how the light makes Smith's hair shine golden and copper, against Trott's chest. It aches him, the realisation; that he can just reach up and comb his fingers through the locks like its a usual thing - It's not. They've seen nothing but each other for four days so far, from the heist on Saturday to the airplane on Wednesday, to here, on a plush bed, somewhere in the world, on Thursday morning. The heist meant that Trott was subject to being five towns away from each of them, with their only communications purely about the robbery. 

The hardest thing to channel, Trott thinks, is resistance upon seeing them. They can't leap at each other because they're too professional, and it would ruin the act. 

Trott cards his fingers through Smith's hair, pulling his curls into straight strands. He hadn't had a haircut in months, and it was going curly again, and because he was unshaven he looked so young. Trott hummed at the surrealistic feel of the morning, and felt something shift against his other side. 

"Good morning," Trott whispered, basking in the sunrays and turning to look at Ross. 

"Morning." He creaked in reply, sitting up. Trott watched the pull of his back muscles under the skin, peppered with dark freckles. Trott reached out and rested his palm flat against the curve of Ross' spine, just because he could. Ross turned around, and tiredly smiled. 

"I missed you." He says, then, swinging his feet over the edge of the mattress and wincing at the cold of the floor panels. "I'll only be a minute." 

Trott let his hand fall onto the plush bed sheet and watched Ross walk to the little ensuite bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

"We're together now." Trott said hopefully, mostly to the door. Smith turned in his sleep, hugging onto Trott's ribcage. Trott tried not to miss Ross, despite the fact that he was only a few steps away.


	17. Drinking in a mediocre chain restaurant bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smith seeks unlikely advice from a bartender. 
> 
> Trott's tattoo says 'khungu anapanga fumbi la nyenyezi'

A good thing about Ross leaving Smith's side for a few minutes to go to the bathroom was that the auburn-haired man had a viable excuse to sit at the counter and study the new bartender.

He was a young guy, in about his mid-twenties if Smith had to guess, and he was almost gorgeous. Normally, Smith wasn’t attracted to tattoos and piercings, but the guy wore them beautifully; there were two small black studs on the left side of his slender nose, and both ears had at least six piercings and were stretched, with plain black gauges in. On his right arm, the bartender had a floral sleeve, all done in monochrome. The watch he wore seemed to make it look like it ended at the watch, and it set off some kind of aesthetically pleased happiness in Smith. There were some words on his other wrist, in plain font, in a foreign language that Smith didn't understand nor recognise. 

He didn't know how long he had been staring at him until the guy was staring right back, and Smith nearly jumped out of his seat.

The bartender laughed. "Can I help you?" And wiped his fringe off of his forehead, only for it to fall straight back into place again.

Smith looked up at the man; who upon direct inspection had beautiful amber eyes and a thin smile, and something about him made Smith feel ultimately comfortable as he glanced up at the drink list above the brunet's head. 

“Whatever you have on draft.” Smith breathed, not really bothered to choose anything. He could drink whatever.

“Coming right up.” Flipping a glass and starting to fill it with deft hands, the brunet smiled to himself. 

“Where's your friend off to?” He gestured to the empty stool next to Smith. 

“Went to the bathroom. He probably fell in or something." When the bartender slid a beer over with a frown and a sympathetic tongue-click, Smith took a deep drink, his eyebrows creasing together.

"We're only here because we usually look for dates. But we never really get too far. We keep ending up just having sympathy bed-shares and hangovers."

Picking up a towel, the bartender started to wipe down the counter; it was usually easier for customers to talk if they didn’t feel pressured, or on the spot.

"Just a share? Not even a one night fling?" When the man said it, Smith almost expected him to be joking. 

Frowning again, Smith found himself rotating his now-half-empty beer glass. “We've never really done that with each other. We joke, but that's about it. We've done it since Uni." He said, taking another sip, emptying the alcohol down his throat. "I guess it just became tradition for us to go on pub crawls and just know it won't work." 

“Your friend," Replacing Smith's now empty glass with a full one, the brunet gave him a thoughtful smile, “Would you want to do that sort of thing with him?" 

“Thanks.” Smith took the second beer, looking down at the foam and swishing the drink around the glass. "I mean, yeah, but I have more feelings than just... That, for him." He said quietly. Blame it on the alcohol for letting him run his mouth. "I don't usually feel like that over anyone."

The bartender frowned slightly, more of a non-verbal question. "No one else?" 

"I haven't really ever felt romantically about anyone before. I might have said it, but it's all past bullshit, y'know? Spur of the moment things." 

The brunet leaned against the bar and nodded, the cloth tucked under his crossed arms. 

The bar was quiet and dark - not swank, exactly, but classy enough to feel comfortable. There weren’t many customers - a few at tables, another two further along the long bar. 

Smith, meanwhile, was on the edge of tears. He always got too emotional over drinks and meaningful conversations. He blinked furiously, looking upwards. 

"What's your tattoo say?" Smith asked, trying to change the subject. The bartender looked down at his wrist. 

"This one?"

Smith nodded, sipping at the beer again. The foam stuck to his beard, but neither noticed. 

"It's Nyanja, says 'Skin made of stardust'." He made air quotation marks with his fingers. Smith smiled. 

"Can you pronounce it?" He asked, and the man smiled back. 

"Koo-ngoo anah-pan-gah," The brunet traced a line from letter to letter, "fumbee la nyeh-nyenzee." 

Smith grinned happily. "It's beautiful." 

"I just got this on my travels, me and my friends all get tats to remember trips that go well."

"Speaking of beautiful," Smith drawled, staring down at his glass. "Have I made a mistake by not telling him?" 

"Your mate?" 

"Yeah, my mate." Smith sneered at the word as if it were poisonous. 

"You've not done anything wrong. I reckon you should tell him, though. Look," the man dug around in his pockets, and Smith frowned. 

The brunet inspected a little card that he pulled out from his back pocket before handing it to Smith. 

"My friend gave me this, it's a discount for a restaurant a few blocks over. Make a date out of it, yeah? That way if he does turn you down you can go to the bar afterwards for half the price." He chuckled. 

"Or we could come back here." Smith chirped. "Thank you, God, this is so nice of you." 

"You're a good guy." The bartender shrugged. He looked at the card. "Might have to rub out my name on it though, unless you want to be known as-" 

"Trott? Is that your whole name?"

The bartender- Trott- laughed. "No, it's the last name. But everyone calls me it." 

"That's so cool. Well, if I know yours," Smith coughed and stood up from his stool. "Alex Smith." He held out a hand, and Trott snorted. 

"Formal, aren't we?" 

"I'm a gentleman, Trott." Smith smiled. He slipped the card into his pocket, and dug out money from his pocket. He dropped a twenty onto the bar, and Trott walked over to the cash register. Smith tapped his arm. 

"The change is a tip." 

Trott stammered. "Mate, your drink was only a fiver!" 

Smith tapped the side of his nose. "Just keep it, mate. And give me your number, we need to talk more." 

Trott smiled, folding the bank nite into a half then slipping it into his pocket, grabbing a napkin and scribbling a number down. He passed it to Smith, who smiled and nodded. 

"Thanks, again." He smiled, and Trott saluted him. 

Ross came back in with a smile, putting his phone in his hand. He stood next to Smith and eyed the beer. "Alright there?" 

"Yeah." Smith said quietly. "Mate, we're going to dinner. Gotta talk about things, yeah?" 

"Yeah?" The dark haired man looked up at his friend indecisively. "Okay?"

Smith looked at Trott, who looked Ross up and down and gave him a wink. Smith waved to him, and tugged at Ross' arm. 

"It's only a few blocks away, a friend recommended it to me, you'll love it."


	18. Making food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smith is sent to a cooking class, and makes quiche, and a friend.

To tell a lie, Smith has absolutely no idea why he has ended up with a chef's apron tied around his wait, and is stood, confused, behind an oven. To tell the truth, he knew he had it coming. Well, he had something coming, but never in a thousand years would he imagine this was coming. 

He wants to say that he's here because he wants some hobbies that aren’t fencing, or football, or swimming. Trott had itched to take him along to his swim team a few times every week. Zoey would always remind him that baseball needed a new player. Some had even mentioned basketball, what with Smith's height. But Smith just wasn't a sporty guy, and so took a cooking class. But that was complete bullshit. He was sent here by his very angry boyfriend and the discovery that Smith had nearly scorched the ceiling of their kitchen a few weeks ago while trying to make grilled cheese. Both the idea of a cooking class - to train him not to burn walls and such had all been out of Trott's spite. Soon it just became better and better. "It'll be nice after a few lessons," Trott would say, curled up into the corner of the sofa, grinning at Smith, "you can make us some good meals." And "Caff said that he made some great friends through his pottery lessons, maybe you can have some cooking buddies." To which Smith argued that pottery and cooking weren't exactly the same things, which resulted in a ridiculous discussion and ended with Smith trying to offer sexual favours in exchange for no cooking classes.

Nonetheless, people had recommended this exact class to Trott. And references, given personally or not, are just concrete enough for Chris Trott, and the next thing Smith knows, he’s signed up for a cooking class a good hour away from home.

So Smith does know why he’s here. 

He just suddenly wishes he wasn’t.

Every single table - are they tables? they remind Smith of kitchen counters, and they all have stoves and sinks and ovens - has two people standing behind it, and, while Smith tries to be anything but presumptuous, he can’t help but assume that they’re all couples. It might be the fact that every single pair is made up of a man and woman of roughly the same age, and one half of nearly every pair looks bored to death; Probably in the same position as him, then. 

On top of all of the couples, Smith might just be the youngest person there. The entire room is full of young love seeping from every pore. Smith scans the room, and counts off all of them, two by two. And then there’s… Oh.

There’s one person who stands alone, at the back of the room, tying his apron strings at the small of his back, and he must not be much older than Smith. At least - he looks young from the glimpses of his face that Smith can catch so he doesn't look weird. He's got dark hair, spiked up with wax or something that isn't shiny, and is very pale. And, seeing as he’s the only one who isn’t already partnered up, he must be the unlucky other person who didn’t get the message about the nature of the class. Go figure. Which made him think; How did Trott sign him up for a couple’s cooking class?

Again, he debates just turning around and leaving, but he would be wasting fuel getting here, and Trott's money. Also spoiling Trott's fantasy of Michelin star meals on weekdays. And, to add to his pro-stay-for-the-lesson-list, a part of him feels crap for essentially leaving his nameless partner all by himself. So Smith stays. 

Smith quickly walks over, fiddling with the coat draped over his arm, and puts on his best, widest but not unnervingly so, smile. Smith is a people pleaser; he's good with people - amazing with people, if he does say so himself. So if this guy unknowingly signed up for this class, at least Smith knows he’s there by choice, right?

When he stops walking, he's barely stood a few steps away from his new companion, but he hasn’t even opened his mouth when the other man instantly starts talking.

“I’m sure the instructor will refund your money,” he says, turning to look at Smith, who has suddenly forgotten everything he had even thought of saying. “You obviously weren’t expecting to be paired with, well…” The darker haired man waves a hand at himself, dismissively. Smith studies his face; his dark eyelashes crowding blue eyes, dark freckles against his practically non-pigmented skin tone, his cracked, pink lips. He coughs Smith out of his state of wonder, and carries on, “and I didn’t intend to sign up for a couple’s cooking class. Then again, it was a Christmas gift from my dad, and he probably missed some fine print or something.” The talkative stranger works at pushing his sleeves up above his elbows, above his gorgeously sculpted arms, folding them neatly and with precision so that the subtly patterned material falls attractively. "Anyway, though, I've been looking forward to this for weeks and I haven't got a single intention of leaving, so if you would just keep any comments to yourself-" 

It's then that Smith realizes that he’s going to have to speak, or else this guy; oddly attractive, every part of him that Smith can see or hear is practically perfect - continue to think horrible, misconstrued things about Smith before he's even opened his mouth.

“The same thing happened to me, mate,” Smith blurts, and the other man halts his speech-rant. “My boyfriend signed me up for this, and I guess he didn’t know it was a couple’s thing either, so," Smith looks down and gestures at himself, standing there, and smiles in a the friendliest manner that he can muster. “If it doesn’t bother you, I’d like to stay?" 

It comes out as more of a question than a statement, and the other man stares at him with wide, quickly blinking, very blue eyes.

“So you don’t mind being partnered with me?” The wonderment with which the man asks a simple question shouldn’t tug at Smith the way it does, but nonetheless it happens. Why would Smith want to leave such a good guy with no partner?

“Why would I mind?” Smith says back.  
The man just stares at him a moment longer with his giant, cyan eyes, and then turns, giving a noncommittal shrug. Smith takes it as a yes. He stares down at his apron and sneers. 

The apron is mustard, of all colours, but it isn’t garishly bright and so could be a lot worse.

“It’s a good thing I look good in yellow,” Smith comments, trying to break the ice between him and his new 'cooking buddy'. 

“Hardly anyone can look good in yellow,” his partner says, turning to look at him again. Smith can feel the man's eyes taking on an impressed gleam. “But you aren’t wrong.”

It feels like sweet victory, and Smith smiles.

“Thanks, mate. You don’t look too bad in it, either.” The victory is over, and Smith suddenly feel an urge to to smack his face into the sink's steel basin. The guy luckily doesn’t say anything back, just glances away again. So instead of dunking his head into the sink, Smith takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and smiles.

“My name’s Smith.” He holds out his hand and waits, wondering if he’ll be left there with his hand in the air until the teacher comes along. Luckily, he isn’t, and a wamr hand slips into his.

“Ross.”

After that, there isn’t much time for talking, because the teacher makes an entrance. She's a very happy looking woman, in a yellow apron of her own, who welcomes the class. 

After about twenty minutes of an introduction, Smith finds it easier to have conversations with Ross. Smith finds out that he lives alone in Trott and his' neighbourhood, and that he can cook but wants to learn how to make more. The chats go by so quickly that he doesn’t know how they went from abilities to cook to how hard their lives were in school. Smith can’t remember the last time he had such a long conversation, and he certainly didn’t expect to have it while learning to make quiche.

Apparently, quiche is something that Ross knows how to make, because they finish before most of the rest of the couples. They switch from deeper topics as soon as the words, “I’m not a fan of quiche,” are leaving Smith's mouth, because then Ross is insistent on getting him to try it. "Alex Smith, you have never tried one of my quiches." (Smith has only tasted his mother's, when he was 13 years old.) 

The class is two hours long, but, by the end of it, Smith feels as if him and Ross have known each other for years. He’s still not sure how asking him to whisk some eggs turned into aggressively exchanging Queen lyrics, but he's happy nonetheless. 

“We're making pies next week!” The teacher calls out. Ross is untying his apron and hanging it up. He has a Superdry hoodie on the peg, and it looks plush. Smith takes off his apron and reaches for his own battered denim jacket. 

“Hopefully these classes give me some sort of challenge, soon,” Ross mutters, rolling his eyes, as they both prepare to leave.

“Hey, let the cooking intermediates warm up to it all! I'm just happy that what we made is edible.” Smith laughs, and Ross scoffs.

“With me, everything we make will be edible,” the shorter man insists, and Smith can’t help the laugh that slips out of his mouth.

They walk outside and stop in the parking lot, other people fanning out over to their cars, and Smith wishes it was next Saturday already.

“So, next week?” Ross asks, his voice high with hope and expectation. 

“Absolutely.” Smith flashes a grin, and Ross smiles hesitantly back, like he’s still unused to Smith smiling at him. "Can I have your number?" 

Ross digs in his pocket, pulling out his phone and then holding it out to him. Smith stares at it, then at Ross, and then he smiles. Again.

When he gets home, Ross' number is locked into his address book, and Smith is skipping through the front door. Trott is cutting a spring roll in half, preparing their usual Friday meal; Ordered in Chinese food. Trott immediately drops what he's doing to walk over to hug him and hold their cheeks together. Smith snorts and snatches a piece of fried duck from a container, asks about Trott's day. Trott tells him about the bitch downstairs in accounting, and that he found an alternative to wedding rings that are these little necklaces that Smith has to see after dinner. Smith agrees, and while Trott sets out everything, he opens up his laptop and begins to research what kind of pie he wants to make next week with Ross. His phone is out and he’s already texting options before he even realizes he’s doing it.

To Ross (20:01PM):  
What do you think about pumpkin?

From Ross (20:03PM):  
I think it’s a little soon for nicknames :P


	19. Spies / Espionage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smith and Ross do what they are renowned for - Flirting or espionage? That's up to you to decide. 
> 
> I think I've found my favourite AU- The Organised Criminals.

Ross, dressed in his two toned tuxedo, stood by a table, and was poised, holding a tray of appetizers and surveyed the large party, with a martini in hand. He dampened his pink lips with his drink, wishing that he could actually drink it. The music was too loud, and having been stood at one of four places in the same, huge room, it was starting to give him a hearty headache. Apart from that, only one thing was going wrong in the mission so far. Smith was late. Maybe he hadn't wrangled an invitation yet, like he was supposed to very easily with Trott's fakes. Ross sighed and wandered to the planter to leave his drink there. A man without a drink was better bait, though he would have to work himself into the host of the party's orbit.

There was another man coming up beside him, and Ross almost started to turn, polite smile on his lips more than ready to give him a brush-off. Being in an atmosphere where everybody is rich and get what they want easily meant practising excuses not to run off to private airplanes to have sex on the way to dinner in Rome.

"I believe you dropped your handkerchief?" Smith asked, holding it up. Ross knew there was a memory stick folded in with the fabric. He couldn't help the smile of recognition. 

There he was. 

Ross had to tone down the smile to one more appropriate to a stranger, but it didn't stop the warmth inside at the sight of Smith's face. Still, he relaxed and gave him a deliberate assessing look, playing up his worldly model-like persona. They hadn't seen each other in five weeks, and he just wanted to run away, find Trott and run back to a crappy hotel with nothing but each other.

Aside from everything else in Ross' mind, he easily recognized that Smith looked more fashionable than usual, with artfully tousled hair and a linen suit and black silk shirt, an emerald tie with golden trim. It was different from his usual more staid suits in the car for on the road, but he looked deliciously hot. Smith's eyes were sparkling with amusement as he held out the fabric. It was the result of Trott locked away in a motel room for those five weeks - a jump drive with the worm on it.

"Oh, thank you. I must've dropped it." Ross took it from him and slipped it into his pocket. 

"Adam Lisdon," Smith held out his hand, now empty. The words slid off his tongue so easily. 

"Daniel Taylor," Ross answered with his own scripted name, and shook Smith's hand with a flirty smile. "Rescuing my possessions deserves a dance. Would you like to dance with me?" Ross smiled, tilting his head. 

From the camera in the corners of the room, Trott could see it all. He was going over everything that they had practised from his seat in the motel. Everything was packed into the car, and he was readily dressed in a cab driver's attire. His car keys were by his laptop's side as he switched from one camera to the next. He muttered to himself, mostly positive things. It was all going well. 

On the floor, Smith held Ross with a little too much familiarity, but hell if Ross didn't want him to move his hand at all. The darker haired man leaned into the taller, and Smith murmured, "You look gorgeous."

Anyone else telling Ross that would've gotten a polite smile of thanks and a sudden departure, but this compliment made him duck his head and a blush creep up his neck because he knew how much he meant it when he said those things, even if it was all on a script. Ross cleared his throat and eased backward. 

"So, Adam, what do you do?"

"Trading. My family has business concerns here. Nothing too exciting, I'm afraid," he shrugged. "What do you do, Daniel?"

In the motel, Trott scoffed at the closeness of the two. He knew that he had instructed it, but now he just feels a dull ache. He will see them soon.

"I'm in the modelling business," Ross answered lightly. "I'm here for a shoot at the dock, and on some of the boats."

Smith grinned widely. "I thought I recognized your face. If you've been near the docks, you've probably seen my yacht."

"Your yacht?" Ross blurted, trying to play off hilarity as shock. 

Smith laughed, just as he practised, but it was aided with Ross' reaction as they gently swayed. "Yes, I have a yacht. She's a beautiful boat. I'm completely attached. Her name's The Gemini." Smith said easily, voice soft. He twirled Ross around once and caught him flush against his chest, his eyes dropping to Ross' lips. And Smith's hand moved suggestively down his dancing partner's hip to rest against the top of the darker haired man's thigh with his fingers.

It was a little fast, but Ross couldn't deny this would be easier. Not to mention going along with the plan.

"Naughty," Ross murmured.

"I am?" Smith mock gasped, and added a slow, cocky smirk that made Ross want to smack him and kiss him into next week. "Would you like to see my yacht? We could be as naughty as we like there."

Ross bit at the inside of his cheek. "Tempting, Adam, but I have to work," He tucked his free hand around Smith's neck, petting at the short hairs at the nape. "But I think we could find a more private place and you can tell me all about your yacht."

"I like the way you think." Smith pulled them both apart. 

They moved through the fancy crowd, both seeming to belong, even though neither of them did. Ross didn't really need Smith's arm, but he tucked his hand around it anyway, to keep the taller man close as they made their way to the hallway to the rest of the house. Then, only slightly screened from the party, Ross pulled him in, kissing him against the hallway wall. They separated; Ross' eyes liddled and Smith's wide. "You move fast, Daniel."

One of the security guards wandered past, paying no attention to them, though Ross watched carefully over Smith's shoulder as he slid his hands around his waist and pushed against him for another heated kiss.

Ross felt for the lock on a door handle, and giggled when it wouldn't open. A loud shout came from inside the room, and Smith laughed. "Glad to know we're not the only ones sneaking out of a party to-"

"Shush." Ross pushed Smith back against the wall, and wrapped one leg around him, nearly forgetting the entire mission in the familiar touch of his lips. "Come on, next room," he suggested, breathlessness not entirely feigned.

The next room was the spacious lounge area of the restroom, and it was full of people doing all sorts of drugs. In the hall, Smith muttered into Ross' neck, "The party favors."

"Free product samples."

Ross captured Smith's mouth again and opened the office door behind him. It was empty, thank God, and they instantly disengaged the moment the door was shut. Smith locked the door and stayed beside it, listening.

"Go."

From his laptop, Trott was looking at the host of the party now. He knew the two would be covered in that office, but his main concern was keeping an eye on the man who owned the room.

Ross removed the drive from his handkerchief, and hurried to a laptop that was set out on the grand desk. "I hope it works."

"Hope so. Or we have to do Plan B, and I don't like the sound of it." 

Ross lifted the lid and turned it on; it was locked and password protected, but he couldn't care less about that. He held open the USB plug and put it in the drive on the left of the laptop. It flashed, and accepted. Ross let out a long exhale.

"It's in. How long?"

"Less than five minutes, Trott said."

Five minutes could be a problem. A guard might come at any moment. They needed more time. Ross lowered the laptop lid again so it wouldn't be so obvious it had booted up. Ross turned back to Smith, who had dropped his jacket on the floor and started unbuttoning his shirt. Ross smiled, approving of this sudden plan. Ross toed off his shoes and licked his lips, and looked over to Smith. He opened his belt and abandoned his post by the door.

"I meant it, before." Smith says, crowding up against Ross. "You look amazing," he nudged his nose against Ross' jaw, kissing at the skin.

Not long afterwards, Ross had his waistcoat, shirt, and suit trousers off, thrown over the laptop to cover it completely. It was also a distraction from the feel of his skin under Ross' hands. Smith was ridding of his shirt.

"I've missed you," Ross whispered into his ear. He lifted him up on the desk, and he parted his legs for Smith, as the taller caressed a hand between his thighs. 

Behind them, the door opened and they both flinched. Ross looked around Smith's bare shoulder, and his eyes met one of the host's personal body guards. Ross recoiled, to hide more behind Smith.

"This is a private office," the guard said curtly.

"Sorry, it wasn't locked," Smith said slowly, "Just a few more minutes?"

"No, you need to leave."

"Could you give us a minute to get our clothes on at least? Please?" Ross asked quickly.

"Hurry up," The guard ordered, and luckily, he did leave the room and shut the door.

Not daring to lift the laptop lid again, Ross pulled the power plug out of the laptop, enough for it to go to battery and hopefully die before the rich owner of the device tried to use it again, and removed the USB lipstick, while Smith gathered their clothes. 

Smith's gaze dropped, and he swallowed hard. "You're a cruel, cruel tease."

"I'll make it up to you," Ross promised. "I still have to see that yacht, don't I, Adam?" Ross' hand caressed down Smith's bare chest as he buttoned his shirt. He caught his hand and kissed the knuckles, eyes full of all the things he wouldn't say aloud, not here. Then, taking a deep breath, it was time to move to stage two of the mission.

Ross dropped the empty USB into his pocket. He opened the door and they went out, nodding to the guard, who was so busy staring at the rest of the hall that he nearly forgot to lock the door. Smith probably could have carried the laptop out and the guard wouldn't have noticed a thing.

They swiftly made their way out of the mansion, and Smith pulled his phone out of his pocket. 

"I'll call a cab," he said, very wary of the guards outside of the bustling building. Ross clinged to Smith's arm. 

Trott was already half way there, two streets away to be exact. He had his hat on and all of his computer equipment in the back, and looked down at his phone on the passenger seat, smiling and speeding his way to the house. 

Smith hung up after three rings, and dragged his finger's through Ross' hair. The wax had worn out over the course of the night, and it started to flop over his forehead. 

Trott pulled into the driveway, just in front of a water feature, and opened a side door. "Gentlemen," he spoke loud enough for the guards to hear, though he stared at the two. 

"Thank you." Smith said, and gestured for Ross to go into the backseat, and slipped in beside him. Trott looked at them admiringly through his dash mirror, and swiftly drove them away. 

"That was amazing, you two." He smiled at the road, while Ross was wiping sweat from his top lip and forehead. Smith loosened his tie, and spread out comfortably in the back of their new car. 

"This car was so worth stealing." He said, still wiping his hands over the plush seating. Trott hummed, and Ross made a small sound of agreement. 

"Your Christmas present, sunshine." Trott smirked to himself, mostly, glimpsing behind him. 

Ross paused wiping his face with a sleeve to question, "What's your present, Trott?" 

"The loves of my life in the back seat of this car."


	20. Present shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same AU as the 'Making food' advent day, since people seemed to love it! 
> 
> I love shopping in Glasgow, and I love Smith stressing over presents, so here's the middle-place.
> 
> (Edit: The draft posted by accident; it's fixed now!)

What do you buy for somebody who you've met twice, and the only thing that could be considered as an obvious interest of theirs is cooking?

 

Trott had taken them up to Glasgow for a meeting with the company he worked for, but it served as a great excuse for them to do some Christmas shopping in a city best known for its branded stores, flashy shopfronts and many many hotels to choose from. Smith had chosen a modern office-esque place with rooms like apartments, with a mini kitchen that was built into a makeshift living room, and a massive king sized bed, big enough for Smith to do starfishes in his sleep while Trott would complain about his boyfriend being the human embodiment of a nocturnal windmill. The whole hotel room was monochrome, and Trott appreciated it deeply. If he wasn’t a banker, he would be some sort of designer. Smith often felt too casual with his style, compared to Trott’s, but reveled in the times that they would go to new towns up and down Britain, purely for the stores.

 

They were in the middle of getting ready for their second day of Christmas shopping, when Smith had asked if they could buy something for Smith’s new cookery friend.

 

"We should go to John Lewis. Get him some utensils or a fancy kitchen gadget." Trott was putting on his third layer; a knitted maroon jumper that made him look much smaller than he really was. Smith pulled on his heavy leather boots and tied a knot in the laces.

 

"Do we have the money for it?" Smith worried, glancing up from the double knot to watch Trott give him a ridiculous look.

 

Trott worked in one of the highest banking agencies in England, and Smith worked two jobs; of course they had the money. Smith could practically hear the words come out of his boyfriend's mouth before he had even opened it.

 

Smith sighed loudly and cuffed his jeans just above the top of his boots. "Guess so."

 

"Is there something on your mind?" Trott wonders out loud, his voice smooth and quiet with anxiety. He shrugs on his jacket; a wide necked black felted mac, with golden trimmed buttons and pockets. Trott knew his fashion sense well.

 

“I just don’t know what to get him, is all. I have everyone else’s gifts.”

 

Which was true; He had bought everything else, and so he thought it was only polite to buy Ross a gift. They had their next cooking lesson on the day before Christmas Eve, and would feel awful showing up empty handed.

 

“He likes cooking, sunshine. Unless he has some other hobbies?” Trott loops his thick mustard scarf around his neck as Smith shrugs his denim jacket over the top of his hoodie.

 

“He likes photography, but I don’t think I know enough about cameras to buy anything like that.” He dragged a hand through his hair and groaned. Trott took a step towards him, and Smith stood up. Trott rested his hand against Smith’s cheek, and stood up on his toes to press his lips to Smith’s. Smith’s eyes fluttered closed, and he let his hands find Trott’s waist. Trott pulled away quietly, his eyes opening. His face an inch or so away, Trott smiled warmly.

 

“I’m sure he’ll love whatever you choose to get him, sweetheart. If not, he’s ungrateful and a tosser.”

 

Smith smiled back at him and dipped his head forward to kiss him again.

 

-

 

 

Buchanan Galleries was home to over 80 different stores, apparently, as Trott read from a pamphlet. The entire high street was packed with a whole array of different people, rushing around and trying to find respectful gifts. People pushed rudely past each other, aimlessly wandering from store to store in the large, marbled shopping centre, bags weighing them down. Smith wandered around the bottom floor, distracted by the food stores and stalls. He tugged at Trott’s jacket sleeve.

 

“Trott, they have Krispy Kreme. We need Krispy Kreme.” He pouted, especially when Trott shook his head without looking up from his map. He took Smith’s hand and dragged him onto a crowded escalator. Smith looked up at the different floors as they ascended slowly, blocking out all of the sounds around him. The only stores in view were white and flashy and covered in huge red and green posters, advertising their festive offers and the such. 

 

They stepped off of the moving staircase with Trott’s hand in Smith’s jacket pocket. The shorter man folded his pamphlet and slotted it into his coat pocket along with his gloves that he had taken off moments ago. 

 

“Thought any more about Ross’ gift, love?” Trott asked, walking them along a row of busy stores. They passed some cafes, and Smith’s stomach growled. 

 

“Honestly, I’m just thinking of food. Can we eat after we find a gift, Trott?” Smith stuck out his bottom lip childishly, and Trott scoffed, rolling his eyes. 

 

“Yeah, but you still need to find him something. I’ll help too.” He quirked his brow in a quiet offer, and Smith nodded, his smile comfortable in the crowds of people. 

 

They approached the store, moving with the current of people, with Smith’s height as a major advantage to see over everybody’s heads. He grabbed for Trott’s hand as he tugged him into the store, and breathed deeply, as if he were to lose him in the crowds. It was possible; rush hour at Christmas time was dangerous. 

 

Trott directed them to the kitchen section of the huge department store quickly, and Smith immediately looked lost, prodding his fingers at machines. 

 

“Maybe a spice rack?” Trott looked at some spice carousels and the tiny labeled containers. Smith was picking up strange things and poking them to see what they did. 

 

“Who makes these?” Smith squints at an apple peeler that holds and peels apples in ‘three times the average speed’. Trott nudges at Smith’s side with his elbow, holding up a knife block. 

 

“To keep knives in, it’ll look cool too.” He says, pointing to the photo on the box. Smith takes a long look at it then shakes his head.

“I don’t see him as the type to want to stab a bit of wood, really.”

 

Trott bit his lip from arguing back, and put the box back, wandering off to the utensils. Smith weaved through shelves of rainbows of silicone tools. Would Ross use cake tins? He didn’t really know if cake baking was his friend’s forte, never mind if he made them enough to require a professional tin. 

 

Smith stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at Trott; over by the cutlery sets. He stalked over to the shorter man, and loomed over his shoulder. “What’ve you found?”

 

“I’m thinking for us. We’ve not got much cutlery for when we have guests.” He mumbled under his breath, in a world of his own. Smith pressed his cheek to Trott’s then leaned off, quietly strolling back towards the trays and tins. Smith began thinking of other things to clear his mind for ideas for Ross. 

 

His family was always easy to buy for; toiletry and perfume gift boxes for his sister and mother, some sort of absurd gadget or coat for his brother, and cards for everyone he could think of. He had bought those easily. In terms of Trott’s gift, Smith had it planned out for their getaway; the date, the walk, the ring. He just hadn’t picked it up from the jeweller’s yet. It was conveniently a block or so away from their hotel. He knew that Glasgow wasn’t exactly known as a romantic vacation, but he also knew that this was one of three proper Christmases that they had spent together, as a couple, and Smith wanted to make it special. Trott had a fair share of bad holiday times, so Smith always tried to make up for it with their shared memories. 

 

Smith, at some point had completely phased out, staring up at the ceiling blankly. Trott was poking at his arm with a few boxes in his arms, hushing his name. He blinked into focus. 

 

“Alright there? You look like you’re on another planet.” 

 

Smith shook his head, smiling, his hair falling about his face. “Was just thinking. Of Ross’ gift. I think he would like some of these.” Smith picked up a pie tin. Trott raised his eyebrow, looking from the tin to Smith’s expression. He shrugged. 

 

Trott sighed and blinked, smiling as sweetly as he could. “You sure?” 

 

Smith nodded enthusiastically.

 

 


	21. Playing Dress-up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three made a good au. I hope I do it justice.

"Won't you give Smith one more chance? There's no one else. And he's our favourite." Trott had his phone snug between his ear and his shoulder as he poured some water from the ice-filled pitcher into a glass, the little cubes clinking quietly. Ross could hear the water flowing and he grimaced. 

“You know he's a restless man," Ross had his phone on loudspeaker, propped up on its stand on the corner of his huge desk. He was a few countries away from Trott, in Paris. Ross had always enjoyed the sights and the quiet office space he had rented out for his design career.  
"Will he want to play dress up in France for a week with no one but us two?" 

Trott scoffed and it was loud out of Ross' speakers. "I don't see why he wouldn't, I mean you're a famed designer-" 

Ross frowned, his elbow propping up an arm that kept his chin resting in his hand. "Not exactly famed-"

"You're a fashion designer," Trott was glaring at the kitchen wall, Ross could tell, and he took a sip of his fresh water. "And Smith is a very willing model with amazing shape and who gave you his info for a situation like this." 

Ross let his face fall into the palm of his hand, groaning. Trott wouldn't let that go, no matter how hard he would try. "Well, you're my glorified secretary; you call him and hive him the details. You two will have to get a plane together and all that." 

Trott whispered a quiet sound of victory in the back of his throat. 

 

Ross loved Trott, but that wasn't to say that the two friends had very few of the same approaches to things, so Ross often had to sacrifice his own plans for ones that were usually proven better, from Trott. 

"You need to book a flight, soon, though. I want a whole briefing with him, maybe a few nights out with you both." Ross says, brushes his hand over a pile of sketches of new designs. He did need someone like Smith- clean cut and tall. Especially for his newer lines. 

"Yeah, okay boss." Trott poked his tongue out, padding through to the living room of he and Ross' apartment back in England. He opened up his laptop, a sleek silver one that took fingerprints for passcodes. Trott rested his thumb upon the touchpad and dropped his phone from his shoulder, rolling the joint. It had gone stiff over the good hour of a call. 

"Should I book us a hotel, or are you on that already?" 

Ross picks up his phone from the little dock and rests it on the desk as he pulls on a light coat; made for him, by him, of course. A black mac embellished with red thread. It was light enough for the weather today- warm and cloudless. Ross peered out of the window of his design room and smiled at the blue sky. 

"Maybe in a while. I'm gonna go to a bakery and get something for myself. Should I get your favourite, keep them in the fridge?" Ross turned off the speaker phone and held it up to his ear. It was cold against his cheek from hands-free use. 

"Please. I won't guarantee that I'll share, though." 

"Not even with our favourite pretty boy?" 

"If I don't share those macarons with my own boyfriend there's not a chance in Hell that I'll share them with him." Trott sounded gravely serious, and it made Ross grin. 

Ross left the warm confinements of his workspace to walk down the long boulevard; the clean pavement lined with tall, thin, planted trees. Ross' coattails fluttered behind him from the speed he walked with long strides towards the little patisserie. 

\- 

That Sunday morning, after Smith and Trott had landed in Paris, Ross had locked up his office and had stayed in one of the two hotel rooms. He was sat on what would be his and Trott's bed for a while, watching a past Hugo Boss show on the hotel TV. A Hugo Boss show meant lots of suits, and that had Ross excited, as he happily ate one of two ham and cheese croissants. 

After about a 10 minute wait, Trott and Smith turned up at the room door, suitcases in tow. Ross opened up the door and smiled at them both. They shuffled into the room, and Ross hugged Trott tightly. Smith watched fondly. 

"Thanks for coming." Ross turned from where he was hugging onto Trott to smile at Smith. He was wearing torn jeans and had flannel tied around his waist, and Ross normally would turned his nose up at the combination, but he couldn't find the energy to argue against Smith right now. 

"Thanks for calling back." Smith smirked. "Trott's been telling me that we have a week of dress up to look forward to," he said, looking at Trott with a knowing smile. 

"Well, yeah. Only in some parts of the days, so it's not too much for you." Ross said quietly. "I mean, unless you want a constant fortnight of trying on clothes." 

Smith quickly waved his hand around. "I wouldn't complain, honestly." 

"Why we have you back, Smith!" Trott patted his hand against Smith's arm happily. Smith retaliated with ruffling the shorter man's hair. 

"Smith, I can show you to your room? It's down the hall." Ross smiles at the playfulness in the air as Trott snorts at Smith's knuckles against his scalp. He stops for the sake of grinning at Ross, and nodding. 

They walked down the hallway chatting about the flight and how much Trott snored on the plane. The room was a simple suite, and Smith loved it.

"Thank you, again, holy shit." Smith says for the fourth time as he looks around, his suitcase by the foot of his temporary bed. 

"It's my thanks to you, mate." Ross smiled, poking his tongue into his cheek. "For coming here, I mean. You didn't have to." 

"I wouldn't miss it for anything, Ross. But I might have to miss tonight. I'm really tired." Smith looked admiringly at the bed. Ross took the hint, smiling as he edged to the door. 

"Give us a bell if you need anything, okay?" 

"Yeah. Thank you." Smith kicked his shoes off and peeled back the duvet. He turned to flash a grin at Ross, who returned it. 

-

Ross groaned as he rolled over in his bed in the early morning, and the noise turned from grouchy to amused as he saw Trott's back in front of him. He reached out to pull him closer into himself. Trott was still asleep, and was heavy, so Ross itched his way over to spoon up behind him. Trott shifted, then made a little noise as he looked down to where Ross was kissing his ribs. 

"Good morning," Trott mumbles, laying on his back. Ross shifts to kiss more onto Trott's chest. Trott grunted, a hand on Ross' head.

"Why are you so sappy in the morning?" 

Ross scrunched up his face and rolled off of his chest. Trott smiled wearily and gets up, making a bee-line for the bathroom, then no doubt to the coffee machine, with no acknowledgment that it is, in fact, a day off. 

Ross turns over in the plush sheets, and waits for some sign of Trott's return to call him back to bed.

Trott apparently finds a mug in a cupboard without even looking, and he's halfway through pouring a black coffee by the time Ross shouts; "Troooooott! Come back to bed!" 

Trott carries his hot cup back through to the bedroom, Ross mewling his disapproval. 

"Hey, grumpy." Trott sits down and the mattress dips. 

Ross turns around and leans back against Trott's hip, his eyes half-closed and Trott's hands cupped protectively around his mug. Ross pouts and nudges him. 

"I'm gonna spill on you," he warns. 

"Better not." Ross sits up next to him, his legs over the top of the duvet. 

"I might." Trott looks down at Ross' legs and feels a hand across his thigh. 

"Trott," Ross says, carefully. Trott takes one more sip of his coffee then places it down on the bedside table. He shrinks down to clamber in between Ross' long legs. "Are you...?"

"Mm," Trott murmurs, and opens his mouth against the soft bulge of Ross' dick in his boxers, probably designer. He breathes out slowly, rubbing his nose back and forth, and Ross sighs above him. 

"I really did miss you when you left me in the apartment back up in Eng." Trott says quietly enough for it not to disturb Ross' hazy state. 

His cock starts to swell under Trott's slow ministrations, and Ross lets go of the sheets to slide a hand into the longer parts of Trott's hair, moaning quietly. Trott keeps just rubbing slowly with his cheek and nose and lips until Ross is hard, tenting his expensive boxers and leaking.

"You know it's part of my lifestyle," Ross says breathlessly. "I don't mean to leave you."

Trott looks up calmly, and looks like he's about to speak, but instead, he hooks his fingers in the waist of Ross' underwear and peels them down, slowly, until Ross' cock springs out, the head wet with pre-come. Trott licks it delicately. His tongue is warm from the steaming coffee.

"Trott."

"Hold on," Trott says in reply, the words muffled by the fact that he's pressing his nose against Ross' pelvic bone and licking at the base of his cock.

"God," Ross shakily sighs, his fingers tightening briefly in Trott's hair, as Trott curls his fingers around Ross. He glances up to see the designer chewing on his lower lip, his usually pale face a light pink. Trott keeps eye contact and opens his mouth around the head of Ross' dick. It slides easily all the way to the back of his throat, Trott's nose rested against the base of Ross' stomach, and Ross' hips hitch in surprise. 

Trott pulls off with a lewd pop, and smiles lazily. "Miss this?" 

Ross squirms to lay flat on his back, and feels the palm of his hand against Trott's ear, the thumb flicking against his cheekbone. "Mmhm." 

Trott laughs quietly then starts to suck him again, slowly at first, ducking deep and then pulling off to work his tongue around the head, and Ross sticks to murmuring encouragement, fingers flexing in the sheets and hips occasionally shifting up and down.

Trott speeds up, and Ross' cock throbs and Ross puts his other hand in Trott's hair and pants as he rocks his hips upward more deliberately. Trott hugs his arms around the back of Ross' thighs and goes still, and Ross chokes on a moan and starts to fuck his mouth.

He's following Trott's lead and not rutting too hard or fast, but Trott closes his eyes and relaxes. Ross loudly groans and cups the edge of Trott's jaw in one hand, fingers still curled around his ear, and even Trott lets out a moan.

Ross whispers something, and Trott reaches up to grab a handful of Ross' ass, urging him on. Ross says, "Ah, Jesus, Trott!" and comes, jamming his pelvis against Trott's chin and coming down his throat, one hand tight in his hair and the other gentle against his neck. He shudders, groaning, and then goes limp against the pillows.

Trott swallows and lets him slip from his mouth, and then rises to his knees to flop over to the side of Ross. 

"Missed you, Trott," Ross breaths out. Trott snickers, slotting himself against the taller man's chest. 

"Missed me, or my blowies?" 

If Ross had the energy, he'd probably have hit Trott with a pillow. 

-

Ross had a makeshift runway in his workspace, purely for practising with his models. The suit Smith was slipping on was was a rich, dark burgundy colour with a tie to match, and a black shirt. “This is called ‘High Class.’” Ross said quietly, settling the blazer flat against Smith's shoulders. “It comes in burgundy, and a dark midnight blue.” 

Today, there were three more suits, but Ross was patient. Smith was tall and thin, but his arms were obviously a bit thick for the sleeves of the jacket, and the buttons on the shirt strained against his chest.

Trott was sat on a leather beanbag, eating orange slices from a plate on the floor.

"Think it's a bit tight, here." Smith waved to his chest, and Ross hummed deep in his throat. 

Smith peeled himself out of the suit and worked on slipping on the next one. Ross stood back and looked at the clothing rack that Smith was beside. They had a lot to do. 

"Smith? Where do you want dinner tonight?" He asked, if anything but to distract himself. 

Smith half turned, feeling his thumbs over a silken tie. "I really don't know many places around here, do you know any good places?" 

They broke into silent chatter for a few hours, Smith trying on all combinations of Ross' suits and laughing and smiling all the way. The air outside was hot as the evening drew closer, and Trott's macarons were safely stowed away in the fridge.


	22. Vampires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy I love vampires. This threw me back to when Twilight was still a craze and everyone wrote for a vampire au. Dark days. 
> 
> In which Ross goes from human to not so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning. Borderline character death. I added tags; Plausible Character death, vampire au, blood. 
> 
> Please heed the warnings before continuing.

Trott's room in the shared apartment was dark, naturally. Sunlight wasn't too much of an asset to a several hundreds year old vampire. But even with the blinds closed and the curtains permanently drawn, he and Smith had painted the place a midnight blue, and Ross, their good friend come lover, had spent a few days painting glow in the dark constellations over the blue, after learning that Trott loved astrology. The other days that Ross was spending there was purely for discussion. The same subject that they were going over right there and then. 

"For the last time, Ross," Trott waved a hand around, his nails painted a dark red, "Are you honestly sure you’re okay with this?” He asked, stroking the backs of Ross' hand with his thumbs. Ross nodded surely, a bright smile on his face. Trott ached. 

Ross was laid on the silken sheets of Smith and Trott's bed. “More than okay, I promise." Ross' face was warm with happiness; confidence leaking from every part of him. 

"Do you want me to go over what I need to do, again?” Trott asked, moving a little closer to Ross, on the bed. Ross nodded, and the shorter man bit his lip as he tried to explain as gently as he could.

“I need to," he scrunched up his face, then relaxed it. "I need to feed from you. But more than Smith did, before." 

Trott was referring to their unworthy meeting; Smith finding Ross and trying to kill him. 

Though they were the same species, Smith had different views on people than Trott did, when it came to their less than amiable predatory habits. It was the same reason that Trott was considered underweight; he only fed once a month, and for the rest of the time used substitutes. Smith, on the other hand fed sometimes twice a week. He did it well, but sometimes he came close to being caught. 

It was different with Ross. 

"After that, I'll feed you some of my blood,” Trott mumbled, not able to look Ross in the eyes. He didn’t want to look at him; picturing his own lover pale and faint from blood loss. "The- then after that, while my blood is stull in your system, I’ll have to- have to ki-" Trott could barely say it, not being able to get that final word out. Ross stopped smiling. Trott had told him that he would never dream of harming Ross, not in the slightest, and he knew Smith would never willingly hurt him either. 

But in order for them to be together for a lot longer than Ross would normally live, Trott would have to hurt him. 

He would have to kill him.

Ross breathed through his nose. “It’s okay. I trust you. I’m okay with it all,” Ross cooed, sitting himself in Trott's lap, on his thin thighs, and pressing light kisses to Trott's pale skin; his forehead, cheeks, then his lips.

"As long as you’re sure,” Trott whispered, cupping Ross' warm cheeks in his hands, kissing him for far longer. Ross nodded again, even during the kiss, the smile returning to his lips.

Ross manoeuvred himself off of the vampire's lap, scooting himself back to lay himself back against the pillows on Trott and Smith's silky black sheets. Trott lay uncomfortably next to him, hovering a hand over his now human lover. He pressed his hand to Ross' chest to feel his heartbeat, one last time before they did this. 

Ross closed his bright eyes and shuddered as he suddenly felt and heard Trott's breath soft against his neck. Ross arched his neck to expose it more. Trot gently kissed the skin there, before parting his lips, his sharp teeth grazing against his throat.

“It’s okay,” Ross said again to reassure him, and his hands shook. 

Trott closed his mouth and swallowed nervously, then opened his mouth and bit down, a little sound escaping his mouth when he felt Ross' familiar blood hit his tongue. Trott briefly wondered if the taste would change when he turned, but returned to feeding, running his fingers over Ross' skin soothingly, as always.

Ross was still getting used to the feeling, after a few years of being with two vampires. He whimpered a little at the initial pain, but tangled his fingers in Trott's dark hair. 

Trott, all the while, drank deeply, one hand still flush against Ross chest, feeling the heartbeat slow down. When it got disturbingly slow, Trott pulled away. He quickly pressed his wrist against his own lips and bit down, then pressed the joint to Ross' lips. The taller man was woozy from the blood loss, barely registering the blood slipping between his lips before he parted them and drank, Trott's blood coating his throat as he slowly got more and more tired.

After a while, Trott pulled his arm away, and pulled Ross into his arms, held him, felt his heart beat sluggishly. Trott felt his dark, sometimes even lifeless eyes tearing up as he pressed his lips against Ross' hair, then his forehead, then finally, his blood stained lips.

And then he gripped Ross' jaw with one hand, the back of his head with another and before Trott could feel anything, pain or, thank god, fear, Trott snapped his neck. 

The room was quiet. 

Trott felt Ross' body drop limply against his, no more pulsating thumps of his heart, no more soft breaths against his skin. 

No more Ross. Not human Ross, at least.

Trott gently cried as he held the man, tears falling down his cheeks before he finally pulled away, making sure to gently lay him back down on the bed while he got up and got everything ready. He pulled out a bag, filled with torn up sheets and a bite-guard, tying Ross' wrists against the head board and putting the bite guard in his mouth. 

Then, he pulled up a chair, and sat beside the bed, his head in his hands while he waited.

-

After half a day, while Trott was in the kitchen, searching the fridge for tomato juice, he heard a sound coming from the bedroom- A whimper.

Trott slammed the fridge door closed and ran into the dark room, seeing Ross' bright blue eyes open but unfocused, roaming around the room before he looked at Trott. There was a moment of nothing, no movement, no sound from either of them.

Then Ross growled. Legitimately growled in a somewhat animalistic, terrifying way.

Trott even jumped, staring at the man on his bed. Ross' usually friendly eyes were a deep red; they were filled with fear and anger and pain and hunger as he shook and struggled against the bonds, snarling at Trott the entire time.

Trott looked away from the eyes, walking calmly towards his boyfriend. He pulled the bite guard aside a little to see his teeth, the canines a little longer, a little sharper as they formed. He pushed it back, knowing that vampires, when they were turning and didn’t have anything to feed on, often bit their own tongues off during the pain-filled hours. Or so he had read up on. Trott wasn't willing to test against the theory. 

Trott left the room.

-

The 24 hour mark rolled around. Ross had gone to sleep around 18 hours into the turning and Trott had gotten a glass of one of Smith's findings of blood ready, sitting beside Ross on the bed, untying his arms while he was still, and undid the bite guard, just waiting. Then he heard a small gasp and turned to see his boyfriend, his eyes open and only tinted red; bloodshot. He looked about to cry.

“Ross?” Trott asked hesitantly, kneeling on the bed. The icy blue gaze fixed on him, staring blankly for a moment before his lips upturned in a wide smile, his teeth glinting a little from the streetlights outside.

“Chris,” Ross said and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close. Trott felt a small pang at the lack of warmth he felt from his mate, the lack of a heart beating in his chest. But having Ross with him forever?

He could sure as hell get used to it.


	23. Roadside Diners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roadside diners can be fast food joints at service stations in the Uk, right? 
> 
> \- 
> 
> Smith and Trott are figure skaters and Sips is their coach. Road trip to London for another competition, just after another.

The rain was loud enough to interrupt the beat of a song on the radio as it fell harshly against the roof of the little grey cooper heading down the motorway at possibly, what Sips thought, the slowest they've ever gone in a car. Parking in a supermarket parking lot was faster than this. 

The coach leant back in the passenger seat, his hands in the pockets of his faux-fur lined jacket. It was a tan leather one, and he had bought it in the states, on the last competition - Just because he was there to train, then watch, then celebrate over the same thing, didn't mean he couldn't buy himself a souvenir. And why have a postcard or a fridge magnet when you can have a good looking coat? 

Sips laughed to himself, quietly, and it came out as a kind of splutter. He gripped onto his wallet in his pocket, overflowing with photos and ticket stumps, his lanyard with rink passes all stuck on, for each tournament he went along to. 

Competitions meant that Trott and Smith would be exhausted afterwards, always collapsed in the back of the car. This time was different; probably the quick sex they had on the last stop, Sips grouchily thought. 

"You won't be too good on ice if you have a cramp from being bent over backwards and riding Trott's dick like some sort of endless fuckpony." Sips had said very specifically to Smith. He remembered it like it was yesterday - mostly because it actually was only a few days ago. 

For now, Smith was driving. His long arms flexed as he changed gears every so often, actually listening when Trott told him that obeying the speed limit in the rain was a good idea. Smith's hair was getting long again, and he had tied it up in a tidy-ish bun at the crown of his head, wisps of copper lining his forehead; dotted with freckles. Trott had his long, slender arms wrapped around the headboard of the driver's seat, so he was practically right behind Smith, occasionally humming along to the music from Smith's old indie CDs or talking about how he think they did in the semi-finals.

Sips would sometimes join in the conversation, but he hated to interrupt. Competitions also meant that the pair could barely have normal conversations anymore, in the warm up to nationals or regionals. They would only talk about skating, the routines. 

Sips would be at the side of the rink with two bottles of water, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth, and another tucked behind his ear as he watched the two glide. Trott and Smith would be at least a few feet from each other for the first half of a routine, and even then their minds would be finely tuned to their performance rather than embracing each other while they had the chance. They would do lifts and the sort together, but the rules still applied. On ice, no one would suspect that the two were in a relationship. 

Sips was more than aware, though. And sometimes it took splitting them up for separate practising for them to focus on big performances, like the nationals they had just passed through. Trott and Smith would sleep in different rooms, and wouldn't do so much as shower in the dance studio washrooms at the same time if they could help it. 

So, now, as Smith sang along to Oxford Comma, with Trott singing along, looking at the driver with pure awe in his shining eyes, Sips wouldn't dare to join in. 

"Sips?" Trott suddenly asked, as Smith whistled to the tune. The rain had calmed down a little; or Smith had just turned up the volume on the radio so the song would block out the sound of heavy pelts of water hitting the roof. 

Sips half turned to look at his student, and it suddenly hit him how far the two had come. Trott was only young when he had started skating; maybe 13, or 15 at the least. When he had bright, shining braces and a rounder face, when his body was untrained, soft. 10 years later he was in the backseat of Sips' car - his body all edges and long limbs. Trott was easily the flexible one of the pair; and he managed to pull off the more androgynous style of skating that Smith couldn't quite grasp. Trott still waited for an answer, and had began to smile, his lips splitting to reveal his pure white teeth. The braces had paid off, Sips had to say. 

"Yeah?" Sips finally shook himself out of it, and watched as Trott bunched the wrists of his long turtle neck jumper in his palms, gripping onto the fabric. Sips quirked an eyebrow. 

"Can we stop off soon? Starving." 

"Hey, ask your driver, Trott," Sips smiled easily, and Trott shifted his gaze to the back of Smith's head. 

"Sunshine?" Trott played with the smaller hairs at the nape of Smith's neck. The taller skater smiled and hummed. 

"Can we stop for a bite?" Trott's voice was very smooth, and there was no stress in his voice. Sips considered it miraculous; Trott was always stressed out of his mind, even if he didn't seem it. But Sips knew him long enough to recognise when the guy had just spent half an hour crying to himself in the shower. 

Smith nodded, his small smile turning into a grin. "Yeah, I could do with some food." 

The next stop was a service station, and it was bound to have some food places, and maybe some bathrooms if they were lucky. It was late afternoon, too. Sips made a mental note to fill up on fuel. 

The road was soaked and the rain turned into hail. Sips had tutted towards the clouds as if scolding them, and Smith had laughed at the idea. Trott started to zip up his coat in the backseat, digging out an umbrella from the pile of coats and backpacks beside him. 

"Tell you what," Sips had suddenly said, when Smith pulled off to head towards the service station, "You two go in ahead and eat in there, and I'll go myself and get some stuff for the car. I'll drive for a while afterwards too, so you crazy kids can cuddle in the back." 

Smith parked in the lot and turned to smile at Sips. The auburn haired man had come even further than Trott. Sips had taken him from the day his mother had signed him up for skating for a hobby. Smith hated the sport at first - he was an angry child. But he was good, and he would run away from home to strop to Sips about how his brother stole his money, all the while dancing along to music on the ice. 

Sips recalled setting them up for the first time. Smith was in after a run in with his brother, and was dancing along on one half of the rink to his walkman, tucked into the waist of his tight trousers, pressed against his stomach, spinning in circles and doing tiny jumps. Trott was practising for a small competition, and the two had started talking, asking Sips if duets were possible. They worked amazingly well from the start. 

"Thanks, Sips. You're the best." Smith flashed a smile and stopped the engine. 

"The best coach ever." Trott joined in, passing Smith's parka over the gap in-between the two front seats. "Do you want us to get you anything?" 

Sips shrugged. "I'll get shit by myself, don't you worry about this old man." He chuckled. Trott laughed, and opened the car door, opening up his umbrella before stepping out of the car and under the shade of the umbrella. Smith joined him, taking the handle and holding it for Trott, who smiled and took his arm. 

"You suit your hair like that," Trott said, quietly. Smith blew a strand out of his face, faced towards the station. 

"Need it cut, really. You haven't seen it down yet." He said. Trott smirked, and reached up to tug at the tie. Smith sighed as his hair fell around his face. Trott gasped quietly. 

"I like it more now. You should let me braid it when we stop off for the night." He said, wrapping the hair tie around his skinny wrist. Trott's leggings were splattered with rain as he walked in long strides. 

"You're looking thinner." Smith's tone was low when he said it, staring at Trott's ankles. The shorter man swallowed. 

"I know. I need more muscle on me, been skipping out on the gym for the dance lessons again. Ross is a good teacher." Trott mused, trying to make light of the situation. Smith frowned, though. 

"You need more than muscle, Trott. You're underweight. I don't want to snap you in a routine or anything." 

Trott stared down at the ground, and he grimaced at the thinness of his legs. He had been skipping meals after reading one too many articles about fitness and weight. Smith was right though. 

"I guess." Trott mumbled. Smith stopped walking for a moment, and Trott dipped back under the umbrella. He looked up to make eye contact. 

"I only worry because I care about you, Chris, you know that." Smith says. He takes down the umbrella, and tugs up his own and Trott's hoods. He tucks the umbrella under his arm, and brings Trott closer to him. "I just want you healthy." 

Trott smiled weakly up at him. "I'll try. I'm sorry." 

Smith dipped his head forward to kiss the tip of Trott's nose. The shorter man scrunched up his face in a laugh. 

"We're gonna have the best food they have in here. And you're gonna eat it with me." Smith takes Trott's hand and they head into the station. Trott laughs on the way. 

The place is weirdly quiet, and Smith heads straight for the bathrooms. Trott goes to the store and buys some bottles of water and packets of sweets for the rest of the long journey to London. He was looking forward to sleeping with Smith that night. It would be for the first time in weeks. He didn't care if they just sat in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, or watching a movie, or fucking in a cheap shower. As long as they were together. 

Smith jogged up to him after Trott had paid for a bag of things. Smith smiled and pointed to something. 

"They have a good burger place. We need burgers." He grabbed at Trott's hand. They walked over to the busy little area. There was white tables and metal chairs, and Smith placed a kiss to Trott's scalp before walking off to join the queue. 

Trott pulled a chair out from an empty table. There wasn't any menus or salt and pepper shakers on the surface, just a sticker with a table number on the far left corner of the square table. 

Trott itched and took his phone out of his pocket. He had been tagged in so much on social media. He checked one, and was flooded with the same photoset a few times. Smith holding Trott's waist on the ice, pressed against his back. Trott, wearing the blue dress, and Smith in the suit. He scrolled down the photos. Trott with his head tipped back, Smith's tipped down so their heads touched in their finishing pose, holding each other. Trott folded his ankles over each other and put the phone down, placing it face down away from him. 

He looked at Smith, who was being served, and wondered if anyone here would recognise him. Or them both. Smith was smiling brightly at the young man, easily a new worker. Trott felt his stomach turn. 

He looked back down at his phone. His parents had called him 16 times since last night's competition. Trott's eyelids felt heavy, and he tried not to feel too bad about not answering them, even if it was accidental. 

The notifications pinged quietly from the phone. Trott set it down on the table.

Smith came over with a tray of fries and little packages. 

"It's like junk food Christmas!" Smith smiled, and Trott tried to smile back. The taller man had a lovely green sweatshirt on, and very tight black jeans. Smith's thighs were thick with muscle, and his stomach wasn't flat. Trott felt his head ache. 

"Chris?" Smith sat down across from him. "You look a little pale." 

Trott's phone started ringing, and Smith picked it up, declining the call. He typed something into the phone. Trott bit onto his lip, and felt about to cry. 

"Just feel off. Things are happening." Trott weakly attempted a smile. Smith reached his hand over the table, and Trott gently held it. "Have you seen anything online?" 

Smith shook his head, and pinched a fry, taking a bite of it. "Been scared to. It's just gonna be the other contenders-"

"It's all us, Smith," Trott pokes at a wrapped up burger, "All of the pictures are pretty much our routine." 

Smith swallowed heavily, and raised his eyebrows a little. "Damn." 

Trott nodded, and let go of Smith's hand to unwrap some food. The taller man smiled as Trott opened it up. 

"We should just ignore the phones for a while. So it won't stress you out." Smith says, and starts tearing the paper from his own gift of junk food. 

Trott let himself smile at that, and took a bite of Smith's chosen meal.


	24. Late at night, no one else awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in that au where Trott and Smith are figure skaters. Trott can't sleep when there's things on his mind.

Trott runs, warm breath puffing out in large clouds of grey vapour. Snowflakes melt away into wet droplets on his flushed skin, and his arms and legs don't even feel the cold as he runs like his life depends on it. It's like he's on some sort of deadline to get to the rink as fast as he possibly can. It's like Sips' demands are blaring in his head; everything he had to improve on embedding themselves deep within what felt like his very soul. So in the middle of the night when everyone else was asleep, Trott couldn't just relax and sleep it off. He had a very physical itch to get on the ice and just _move_.

He bounds up the staircase, shoving his hands in his pockets and scrambling for the key to the back door from Sips. It was always in his pocket. He finds it, and sighs in uttermost relief, a smile passing over his face as he jams it into the lock and turns it, pushing the heavy door open and stumbling into the cold, dark building.

It's scary to most people at night, but in this situation, at this time in the morning, and to Trott, it feels like home.

Trott flicks on three lights - one for the locker room, two on the rink. And that's all he needs, really. His hands automatically open his combination lock from pure memory, and pulling on his skates just emphasises the progressively loud tension of Sips in his head - _Try harder, you won't get anywhere doing that, come on already._

He walks as briskly as he can into the rink, and gasps quietly in awe of the beauty of the ice. It had been cleaned last night, so the usual scratches and dullness was completely gone, and absolutely no one was here to distract him. It's fresh, clean, and gleaming in the light, begging to be skated on.

Trott takes a deep breath and steps out onto the ice. He does a lap around the rink, quietly relishing in the coldness clamped around his body and the familiar sound of metal shearing ice.

He thinks about their routine; where Trott kept going wrong, where Sips would snark about him not trying at all. Trott frowns, performing a triple Toe Loop and flourishing it with a wide sweep of his right leg, sending showers of ice chips into the air. Trott can feel his legs protesting the jump immediately; he didn't warm up before hitting the ice, and he’s still harboring some of the softer, looser flesh from last week’s bout of stressed out eating. Trott completely blames Smith.

With a determined huff, he continues skating around the rink, spinning and twirling in a fluid step sequence. Fuck if he wouldn't sleep tonight.

-

Smith doesn't want to be awake, but there's a definite lack of thin arms around his waist, no chin hooked over Smith's shoulder, and the cool air that replaces that feeling is enough to disturb his sleep. He knows where Trott would be, and sits up, still half asleep, to get ready and head to the rink.

When Smith arrives, it's 3am. He trudges to the actual rink area, half clad in pyjamas and half in a huge trench coat, his skates pulled on, taking in a sharp breath when he catches sight of Trott.

The shorter man is skating like his very life depends on it; he jumps and spins and twirls and moves every part of his body in perfect sync to imaginary music. The only sounds echoing around the rink are his blades against the ice, his heavy pants of exhaustion, and Smith's heartbeat pounding in his ears. Because even at 3 am, sweaty and disheveled, Trott is absolutely breathtaking.

Trott lands a flawless jump, and Smith quietly steps onto the ice, moving slowly around the edge of the rink, hoping not to be detected. Trott is coming to the end of the singular part of their routine and Smith lazily smirks, pushing off the edge of the rink and making his way towards Trott.

Just as the older man is about to move out of his final pose - arms in the air, hips taut - he feels long arms wrap around his waist, and cold lips hit his neck.

“That was beautiful,” Smith whispered against his skin.

Trott's arms drop to his sides. "Smith. Why are you awake?"

Smith only hums against Trott's warm skin and kisses at his neck, despite all the sweat that's collected there.

"Could ask you the same thing."

Trott shivers, and leans against Smith with a shaky sigh. “I just needed to skate."

Smith nods, hugging Trott's frail body tightly to his chest. “It's okay, really."

Trott feels himself half-collapse in Smith's grip, and he nearly cries.


End file.
